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^^^-K//.- '^^'^^^C.^s.-;^ 



THE FLAMING METEOR 



POETICAL WORKS 



WILL HUBBARD-KERNAN 



BIOGRAPHY BY / 

HON. JOHN R. CLYMER 



OF OHIO 



CHICAGO 

CHARLES H. KERR AND COMPANY 

175 Dearborn Street 

1892 



\ 



\\ 









Copyright, 1891, 
RICHD. D. KATHRENS 

WILL HUBBARD- KERN AN. 



CONTENTS 

Portrait of Author Frontispiece 

Preface 7 

I.ife-Sketch 11 

Poems of Pessimism: — 

The Cry of a Cynic 27 

In the Jungle 28 

Compensation 31 

Vashti 33 

What Is the Use? 36 

Agatha 38 

The Vanishing Isle 40 

Inez 42 

Patriotism 44 

Harold 45 

George Eliot 48 

•Geraldine of the Graeme 50 

Dorothy 53 

Kenneth, My Kuig 56 

King Custom 57 

Idalia 60 

The Solitude of Self 63 

"Guiteau" 65 

De Profundis 68 

Britomarte 70 

Song of Hate 73 

Unsung 70 

A Prophecy 77 

Presentiment 79 

Avery Meriwether 81 

Cresentius 85 

No Place for Me 87 

Melodies of Misogamy : — 

Lionel LaVere 91 

Blessings of Bachelorhood 96 

Secret of the Song 101 

Claude 105 

3 



4 Contents 

Poems of Passing Moods : — 

Pantheism 115 

Hope 119 

A Diamond Day 126 

Found 128 

We Two 132 

Myra 133 

A Fragment . 136 

Thirty Years 136 

A Summer Picture 139 

The Dream of a Dream 141 

The Martyr Band 144 

Sunamcam 145 

Impromptu 147 

Love and Lust 1 48 

The Minnesinger 151 

Reginald Vane 152 

Percy 1 54 

Una 155 

Song of the Twentieth Century 158 

My Vision 1 60 

Is it I? 162 

Claude St. Clair 163 

Anonyma 172 

Optimism 1 73 

Launcelot 1 76 

Eternity on Earth ] 77 

In a Mad House 180 

The Poet Boy 181 

New Year 185 

Progress of the Peoples 187 

Betrayed 189 

Victor 190 

Caryl 194 

Vivian 195 

Percival 197 

Philip 199 

In August 201 

To a Dear, Dead Friend 202 

Light of Life 208 

Ulalie 210 

The Bugle 213 

Ulric 216 

Chicago 218 



Contents 5 

Agnostic Arguments : — 

Agnosticism 221 

Why 228 

If I were God 330 

Ruth 231 

If I Thought as You Think 233 

The Land of Fancy-Free 235 

Questionings 239 

Basil 241 

The New Sermon 243 

Per Castra Ad Astra 245 

Unfulfilled 247 

What Will it Matter ? 250 

Poems Political: — 

Apologia 252 

Southland 253 

No Compromise 2C0 

Southern Slain 2C1 

We Never Will Submit to Kings 263 

Our Cause 265 

An Anonymous Assailant 267 

Pecksniffian Politician 268 



TO THE BEST FRIEND I EVER HAD, 

MY MOTHER. 



PREFACE 



In presenting the present volume to the pub- 
lic, I realize that it is a risky venture, for the 
literary market has long been surfeited with 
verse, and the impression has gone forth that 
the "poets are all dead." 

A certain nineteenth-century censor once 
said: "All poetry was written by men who were 
dead and dust before any of us were born; 
and it is impossible to concewe an idea of a 
poetical type younger than the bards who 
went down to death before America had been 
awaked to civilization." But I hold that the 
censor in question was too sweeping in his 
assertion; that, in the advance of time, new 
thoughts, feelings and ambitions have come to 
animate humanity; that lofty and luminous sen- 
timents have sprung from the laws of liberty, 
unknown in the time when the Blind Bard of 
Scio swept his harp; that all best and brightest 
literature is the consummate flower of the cycle 
that is now thundering and throbbing into the 
eternity which it will forever electrify. 

In introducing to the world in book form 
the poetical works of Will Hubbard-Kernan, 
I feel that I am rescuing from the "rounds of 
the press" some of the choicest flowers that 
bedeck American literature, which will raise 
from obscurity and darkness, into the blazing 
light of a never-ending day, a name that shall 
endure among the great of our country. 

Whatever difference of opinion may exist at 



I o Preface 

present regarding Will Hubbard-Kernan, as a 
poet, there can be no doubt that he possesses 
a positive individuality, a certain vein of 
originality, unapproached by any other living 
writer, a style and philosophy distinctively 
his own, and a certain daring forcefulness that 
defies all preconceived opinions formulated 
by the church, society and the state. 

As a man Kernan stands apart, because few 
can understand him. He is an intense, I 
(night sa}^ vindictive, hater of shams, and he 
never conceals his opinions or hesitates to 
speak his creed in unmistakable Saxon. He is 
a free-thinker in religion and a free-lance in 
society. His mind is constantly at war with 
existing conditions. At one time a potent 
force in politics, he has surrendered and re- 
nounced all allegiance to "the powers that be, " 
believing all present forms of government to be 
radically wrong in vital matters. He is op- 
posed to matrimony and the perpetuation of 
the species, holding with Schopenhauer that 
the world is a gigantic swindle, life a dark 
and dreary tragedy, and that it is a greater 
crime to bring a soul into this vale of tears 
than it is to send one out of it. 

His poems were written without any other 
object than to give concrete form to the long- 
ings of his own soul, and they combine all the 
rhythm, melody and motion of an ideal love- 
song and the volcanic force of a nature that 
sees all, feels all and fears nothing. 

While we may not admit the prevailing 
trend of his philosophy, which has a decided 
tendency toward pessimism, and is in conflict 
with accepted ideas in many instances, still 
there is in his songs an inexplicable tenderness 



Preface 1 1 

and pathos that appeal to ever}^ heart, a 
magnetism that enchains every mind, and we 
are impelled irresistibly to bow in admiration 
to the force and energy of his intellect. He 
seems to have swept with a master's hand over 
the whole scale of human feeling — to have 
sounded in turn each of life's notes, except 
that bright, joyous one, in which the lesser 
poets so delight to revel. 

Readers of this volume will readily discern 
that Mr. Kernan's life at times has been dark- 
ened by heavy shadows. Every line of his 
sad, sweet verses, perhaps unknown to him- 
self, betrays the "anguish of the singer." In 
his famous "Song of Hate," a bitter arraign- 
ment of the world of sham and sin, he most 
forcibly presents his estimate of life and the 
pleasure he finds in his share in it: — 

For since the first, fierce morning of time with its toils and 

tears, 
Down through the dim, long vista of fleet and fugitive years, 
I see but the one black picture, 'twixt cradle and coffin-bed. 
Of conquering knaves 
And cowering slaves. 
And the doom that struck them dead. 

The general gloom that casts its melancholy 
shadow over his soul is but the reflection of 
his sad and stormful career. Born at a time 
when the dissentient sections of our common 
country were preparing to march into the tears, 
blood and agony of civil war, his youth was 
embittered by the hates, crimes and passions of 
that tumultuous epoch. Unfortunately for him, 
Kernan's earh' sympathies went out to the 
people of the South, and he championed their 
cause with all the force and ardor of his soul. 



12 Preface 

As editor of the Okolona (Miss.) States, he 
spoke his sentiments in "language as hot and 
hissing as a musket-ball on the wing" — I quote 
his own words — and for his impolitic utterances 
of Southern opinion he was subjected to the 
most bitter partisan denunciation. Prompted 
by artful machinators, the Northern press, of 
his own party, joined in the clamor, branding 
him a "Republican in disguise," and a spy who 
had been sent into the South for the purpose 
of kindling anew the flames of civil strife. 
This infamous libel served well the purpose of 
his treacherous traducers. The more ignorant 
masses of the old Confederacy became incensed 
against him; insidious enemies in both sec- 
tions sprang forward to vent their latent spite, 
and the courage of his friends, with a few 
noble and notable exceptions, gave way before 
the godless crusade. 

For years Kernan has been the victim of 
political persecutions, and a pitiless fate has 
dogged his path with such unrelenting malev- 
olence, that the naturally morose and melan- 
choly tendency of his mind has been .greatly 
intensified. 

If Mr. Kernan is of a pessimistic trend of 
mind, it is owing to the foregoing facts; and 
the thinking, discerning, unprejudiced reader 
will remember them in making up his judg- 
ment on the unorthodox sentiments of his 
poetry. 

Consider why the change was wrought, 
You'll find it his misfortune, not his fault. 

R. D. Kathrens. 



WILL HUBBARD-KERNAN 

A SKETCH OF HIS LIFE, AND HIS CHARACTERISTICS 
AS A JOURNALIST AND A POET 

The people of Verona, when they saw Dante on the streets, used 
to say, '^Eccovt I'nom ch'i stato alV Infcmor' — ("See, there is the man 
that was in hell!") Ah, yes, he had been in hell— in hell enough, in 
long sorrows and struggle, as the like of him is pretty sure to have 
been. . . Perhaps one would say, intensity, with the much that de- 
pends on it, is the prevailing character of Dante's genius; partly the 
fruit of his position, but partly of his own nature. His greatness has, 
in all senses, concentered itself into fiery emphasis and depths. . . 
There is a brevity, an abrupt precision, in him. Tacitus is not brief- 
er, more condensed; and then in Dante it seems a natural condensa- 
tion, spontaneous to the man. One smiting word, and there is dark- 
ness. Strange with what a sharp, decisive grace he snatches the 
true likeness of a matter: cuts into it as with a pen of ^xe.—'iTJiomus 
Carlyle. 

Will Hubbard-Kernan, the subject of my 
sketch, first saw the light in the beautiful and 
historic Mac-o-chee Valle}', Ohio. His father, 
the late Judge Kernan (lineally descended from 
the celebrated Kernans of the Emerald Isle), an 
eloquent and successful lawyer, removed with 
his wife, a lady of beauty and brilliant talents, 
to Belief ontaine, Ohio, in 1848, where he resided 
until his death, in July, 1883, enjoying the 
honors and fruits of active, professional life. 
Wm. Hubbard, one of the most brilliant poets 
and powerful journalists of the great West, and 
Thomas Hubbard, one of the ablest and most 
humorous of our political writers — uncles on 
the mother's side — are among the many of his 
family whose gifts and achievements impelled 
him to tread the thorny as well as the flowery 
paths of intellectual endeavor and fame. He 
attended the Academy at Bellefontaine several 
years. In 1866 he attended i^^^e University at 
13 



14 Life- Sketch 

Ann Arbor, Mich., graduating in the law-class 
in 1868. Returning home, he wrote for the 
press until 1870, winning favorable commenda- 
tions from the Fourth Estate. 

Attracted by his sentiments, and nervous, 
energetic style of wTiting, Mr. Kernan was in- 
vited by Hon. Wm. M. Corry to Cincinnati, 
Ohio, who associated him with the editorial 
department of the "Commoner," where he ex- 
hibited remarkable power as a political writer. 

Resigning his position, he became a reporter 
for the News Association in New York City. 
After a short service in the metropolis he was 
appointed editor-in-chief of the Ft. Wayne, 
Ind., daily "Sentinel" — one of the leading 
Democratic organs of the West — doing signal 
service for his party. He resigned to assume 
an editorship on the Indianapolis "Sentinel." 
His radical utterances created a host of ene- 
mies among the vacillating Democracy, and see- 
ing himself abused, maligned, unappreciated, in 
the house of his friends in the North, he went 
South in 1875, and the next year became edit- 
or of the Okolona "States, " of Mississippi. That 
prodigy of Southern journalism, under the 
magical utterances of his pen, displayed a 
boldness and an intensity of expression per- 
haps never equaled, certainly never excelled, 
by any American paper. It was the subject of 
grave discussion in Congress, as well as in lead- 
ing magazines, and its scathing, catapult edi- 
torials were copied and commented on by the 
press of all parties throughout the land. No 
such flaming meteor ever blazed across the 
political heavens. Many, both North and 
South, disputed the correctness of its princi- 
ples and conclusions; but all, even its fiercest 



Life-Sketch 1 5 

enemies, admitted its earnestness and ability. 
In a short period this hitherto obscure village 
journal ran up to more than ten thousand cir- 
culation. An unfortunate difference between 
editor and proprietor (the latter having placed 
the former in a false position on certain polit- 
ical matters) caused Mr. Kernan's resignation, 
and instantly the Okolona meteor was extin- 
guished. As La Crosse was, is now, and for 
long will be known as the place where Brick 
Pomeroy published his "Democrat," so Okolona 
is known abroad, like a household word, for 
the only reason that Will H. Kernan there, 
for a few brief years, shot out from its obscur- 
ity the blazing light of his fiery genius. 

In the summer of 1880 he assumed the posi- 
tion of staff-correspondent of the Chicago 
"Tribune," still writing in his usual Democratic 
vein. In connection with a friend he started 
the career of the "Solid South" at Memphis, 
Tenn., December, 1880. Retiring from that 
enterprise, he went up into the Cumberland 
Mountains, seeking health and pleasure, where 
he wrote for several political and literary jour- 
nals of prominence. At the same time he 
began writing those remarkable poems that 
appeared in "Meriwether's Weekly, "the leading 
literary paper of the South, under the 710m de 
plume of "Kenneth Lamar." But concerning 
his poetry let me not anticipate. 

In 1 88 1 he went North and became identified 
with Iowa journalism. While editing the 
Odebolt "Observer" in that State he was select- 
ed as a delegate to a Democratic convention, 
whereupon certain unprincipled schemers in 
his party formed a conspiracy to keep him out 
of that body because of his Okolona record. 



1 6 Life-Sketc1$ 

The plot was successful, and disgusted with his 
treatment, Mr. Kernan withdrew from politics 
to become the editor of an independent paper 
at Orange City, Iowa. Since then he has been 
identified at different times with the press of 
Arkansas, North Dakota, Kansas, New York, 
Michigan and Minnesota, and his strange, 
stormful career in the field of journalism would 
make a volume of more intense interest than 
any novel of our century. 

^ 5^ ^ 

Personally, Mr. Kernan has gray eyes, black 
hair, stands five feet, eleven and a-half inches 
in his shoes, weighs i6o pounds, is straight as 
an Indian, what ladies would call handsome, 
and possesses a fine intellectual head and ex- 
pressive countenance. But no one would sus- 
pect for a moment that he was the whilom 
"fire-eater" of the "Okolona States" or "Solid 
South. " As mild a mannered man as ever danced 
attendance to my "ladye fayre, " he is the most 
fierce, scathing, sarcastic, political writer — the 
most terrible master of invective since Junius 
made the King of England tremble on his 
throne. His vocabulary of words is wonder- 
ful, and yet no person can, or ever does, mis- 
take his meaning. His short, crisp, staccato 
style was invented by him, and he uses it for 
the double purpose of giving his thoughts 
piquanc}^ and exclamatory force. Woe to the 
upstarts who provoke his wrath, for he not only 
demolishes, but annihilates. Had he lived in 
the Middle Ages, when chivalry was in its 
glory, he would have been one of the truest 
and bravest knights that ever shivered lance or 
flashed sword in vindication of woman's virtue, 
the Cross of Christ or the Holy Sepulcher. 



Life-Sketch 1 7 

Intensit} of feeling and vehement expression 
characterize eacli of his productions. Never 
made to be a slave, the poet's aspiration is his 
own: 

"Thy spirit, Independence, let me share — 
Lord of the lion -heart and eagle-eye! 
Thy steps I follow with my bosom bare, 

Nor heed the storm that howls along the sky." 

A brilliant meteor in journalism, he fills a 
void, hitherto unattempted, no other can fill. 
Agreeable to taste, conviction or prejudice, crit- 
ics will differ as to his merits in this respect, 
but all will admit his fierce candor, clear-cut 
style and unmistakable originality. A Democrat 
of the Jefferson and Calhoun type, he is inde- 
pendent, incisive, too little accustomed to 

" crook the pregnant hinges of the knee, 

That thrift may follow fawning," 

to ever become in the popular sense a great polit- 
ical leader. Of orthodox religious parentage, 
yet he is predisposed to Agnosticism — not from 
natural instinct or inner consciousness, but 
rather as the result of an Ishmael life in jour- 
ttialism and a fierce contest with the elemental 
forces of politics, causing his hand to be against 
every man and every man's hand against him. 
Truh^ it can be said of him as it was said of 
Dante: There is the man that was in hell!" 

So much of Mr. Kernan, his birth, personnel, 
life-pursuits and principles, all with special 
reference to a correct interpretation of him in 
his more pleasing and exalted character of 
poet — for be it known unto you, O most wise 
critics, North and South, that he is one of the 
truest and worthiest that ever swept his hinds 
across the strings of our country's lyre. 



1 8 Life-Sketch 

Poetry is the gift of God — his voice speak- 
ing through man to men. Not college-bred nor 
self-made, the genuine poet is he who feels, 
speaks, sings or writes the inspiraitons of the 
High and Holy One who inhabiteth Eternity. 
That inspiration is an inexplicable mystery. 
Like the wind, it bloweth where it listeth; thou 
hearest the sound thereof but canst not tell 
whence it cometh or whither it goeth. 

Vapor, generated in the bosom of our planet, 
escapes, ascending through its earthquake- 
riven shell to the surface of the Arkansian 
Hot Springs, condenses in pure, limpid, heal- 
ing waters, differing in temperature, quality 
and magnetism. So these inspirations of the 
Supreme, that men call poetry, differ in the 
same ratio, according to the physical, mental 
and moral organisms through which they come 
to ble^s or curse mankind. 

,At proper times God said: "Let there be 
light — let Homer, Virgil, Dante, Shakespeare 
and Milton be." And it was so. They came, 
and brought with them the Iliad, ^Eneid, In- 
ferno, Hamlet and Paradise Lost. He looked 
on them and pronounced them "good. " 

These, and all other poets, came because they 
were wanted. Predestined to sing their im- 
mortal verses and utter the prophetic verities, 
necessary to be uttered at various and proper 
times, they were "the called, according to his 
purpose. " 

There were fewer major than minor prophets 
in the olden times, but all were divinely sent, 
and each had a specific mission. And so with 
poets, for each had his time, place and pur- 
pose. It is not for the creature to say to its 
creator, "Why am I thus?" 



Life-Sketch ig 

Our nineteenth century ha^ had no major poet 
sent to it. From Byron, Tennyson, Longfellow, 
and Edgar A. Poe, to Walt Whitman, they 
are all minors. Yet God be thanked for them, 
every one! They fulfill their mission and des- 
tiny: 

Without further prelude, let me introduce 
the poet Kernan, to you, O gentle reader! 
and, presenting some of his verses — mere dis- 
jecta membra of his poems — ask the suffrage of 
your kind and considerate judgment. For the 
sake of convenience and perspicuity, his poems 
may be divided into descriptive, patriotic and 
Agnostic. 

In 1 868, he gave to the public, in the Bucy- 
rus (O.) Forum, "The Dream of a Dream," 
which at the time was approved by competent 
judges as possessing uncommon merit. The 
reader will observe the power of description, 
exhibited in his youth, in the following stanzas 
culled from it at random : 

I live with old memorial things — I wander spacec wide. 
* * * * : 

Hot Afric jungles, thick and green, before my vision rist,. 
A cruel tiger crouches there with bright and burning eyes, 
And in the shadow of a palm a naked native stands, 

With lifted spear— the savage son of still more savage lands. 
I see the desert stretching dim before mine aching eyes, 

Oases with their plumy palms carved green against the skies, 
And black Assyrian ruins where the tents of Arabs gleam, 
And the solemn site of Tyre, where the tisher dreams his 
dream. 

If Bryant or Longfellow had written that line, 

Oases with their plumy palms carved green against the skies, 

how the critics of Boston would have shouted 
themselves hoarse in its praise! 



20 Life- Sketch 

"Found" is full of splendid word-painting, 
and is a fair specimen of Kernan's descriptive 
power. Read this: 

The foamy waves 

Were chiming at my feet a tune 

That sounded like the subtle rune * 

Of some lost paradisic staves, 
When, suddenly, before my sight 
Stood up a city, vast and while. 

With strange, majestic temple-walls, . 

Deserted streets and voiceless halls. 
With dumb, proud idols, ruined shrines. 
Urns stained with sacrificial wines. 
♦ * * * * 

And thus the lost was found, and thus 
From uttermost of continents. 
We were led back to love intense, 

By ways that were unknown to us — 
By ways we never would have trod. 
Save through the guidance of a god. 

What a grandly poetical description is this, 
from Kernan's celebrated poem, "Southland," 
read at the thirteenth Annual Convention of the 
Mississippi Press Association, at Vicksburg, 
June, 1878: 

O, Southland, loveliest land beneath the bright blue-bending 

skies! 
O, land most passionate this side the gates of Paradise! 
A sense of gladness unconfined was mine when first I set 
My foot upon thy flowery sod; it lingers with me yet. 
I love thy immemorial hills by humankind untrod. 
The rose-lights of their raptured heights touched by the kiss 

of God; 
The crash and wirble jubilant of cataracts that leap. 
And flash, and shiirimer through the vines that trail from 

steep to steep. 
I love thy valley-lands; they hold a beauty never sung, 
As sweet, as pure, as undefiled as when the world was young; 
As then the ripe, wild roses trail their scarlet mists of bloom, 
And sparkle sun-lit lily-bells with amber hearts illume; 
As then the rivers roll and surge — proud, passionate and free, 



Life- Sket ell 21 

Through sweeps of glad savannah- lands, to kiss the golden 
sea. 

I love thy wild and waving woods where in the glooms ot 
green 

The miracle magnolia flowers like fallen moons are seen, 

Where mock- birds twitter, pipe and trill through long, re- 
splendent days. 

Till leaf and flower seem to dance in rhythm with their lays. 

These lines discover the poet's inward wish. 
Though born and bred in Ohio he is, and from 
childhood has been, a devoted lover of the 
Sunny South — whose sympathies are with her 
people, politics and institutions. No son of 
hers was ever more loyal than he. Occasion- 
ally he was moved by this spirit, and verses 
of wonderful power were the result. In a 
poem of difficult meter, entitled "Our Cause," 
are the following suggestive stanzas: 

Go thou to their burial places 

When the crimson and creamy blooms 
Are thridding the greenest grasses, 
Are twining the dim old stones, 
And think of their proud, still faces 
In the depths of the desolate tombs. 
And say over them thy masses, 
And vent over them thy moans; 
And swear by the blood of thy brothers 
Who fell on the battle-plain — 

Swear by their graves all glorious, 
By the prayers thy sisters prayed, 
Swear by the tears of thy mothers, 
By our passion and our pain, 
Forever, until victorious. 

For our Cause to stand arrayed. 

"A Song of the Twentieth Century" reads like 
some of Tennyson's patriotic verses. It stirs 
the soul like a trumpet-blast: 

Hosanna! Lift up the bright palm-branches higher, 

O, race that was ransomed through flood and through tire! 

Ring, stormily ring, O, ye bells in the steeples! 



■22 Life-Sketch 

Flash, merrily flash, O, ye flags of the peoples! 
The monarchs have fallen — the people are free! 

Vive Liberty! 

"The Progress of the Peoples" is one of the 
noblest utterances of the aspirations and event- 
ual elevation of humanity ever made, and 
certainly the noblest in behalf of woman. 
This is seen in every detached stanza: 

Upward, upward, press the people to that pure exalted plane. 
Where no throne shall cast a shadow and no slave shall wear 

a chain. 
They have trampled on the fagots, broken crucifix and wheel, 
Banished block and thong and hemlock and the headsman's 

bloody steel; 
Forced the Church-hold to surrender stake and scourge and 

bolt and bar — 
Torn the keys from off its girdle, thrown the Gates of Truth 

ajar. 
They have forced the titled tyrants human rights to recognize, 
And with bayonet and saber they have slain a legion lies. 
They are lighting lamps of freedom on a million altar-stones 
With the torches they have kindled at the blaze of burning 

thrones. 

;)< Ji^ * * * 

She hath wept and prayed in passion — bitterly hath made her 

moan — 
All the terrors and the tortures of the tyrants she hath known; 
Still, the blood that flows for Freedom, flows for man, and 

man alone. 
She hath borne with man his crosses, she hath worn with man 

his chains, 
She hath suffered all his losses, she hath suffered all his pains, 
She shall stand with him, co-equal, on the pure, exalted plains! 

It is to be regretted that Kernan's mind has 
latterly become entangled in the fantasies and 
sophistries of Agnosticism. A universe without 
a God, a human soul without a future exist- 
ence, is at once illogical in principle and re- 
pugnant to man's highest and holiest aspira- 
tions. Some of his most powerful and notice- 
able verse has been sung in this key. "What 



Life-Sketch 23 

is the Use?" which has been widely published, 
answered, and discussed in the public prints, 
shows the groping of the poet's soul in the 
dark: 

They prate of a phantom world afar, 

Beyond the mold and the marble urn. 
Beyond the fire of the furthest star, 

Where life is immortal and love eterne. 

But I am no dupe of their priestly dreams, 

They know of nothing that is to be: 
The light that out of their heaven streams, 

Is the self-same light that shines on me. 

5|i y^ v^ yf^ ^ 

What is the use of it all, I say? 

Why are we brought from the blank Unknown, 
To weep and dance through a little day, 

That drifts us under a burial-stone? 

And the following in the same strain: 

O! Fate is cruel, and Fate is cold, 

And only giveth a grave at last; 
And what is glory, or love, or gold. 

When this brief hour is overpast? 

What doth it matter us how we live? 

What doth it matter us how we die? 
What can all of the future give 

When under the grassy clods we lie? 

What will it matter to you and me — 
Insensate there in immortal calm — 

Whether our funeral dirge shall be 
A reptile's hiss or a nation's psalm? 

Whether our friends were false or true. 
Whether our foes were strong or weak, 

What will it matter to me or you. 
After our candle is out? O, speak! 

From such cheerless philosophy as this, I 
gladly turn to the following outburst of poetic 
fervor, in his "Poet-Boy of Mississippi: " 

But there is a Revelation, and it redes itself to man — 
Known it was in every cycle, unto every creed and clan, 



24 Life- Sketch 

Taught the simple heart primeval by the still, oniail voice 

within, 
Prompting it to deeds of duty — urging it to shrink from sin, 
Pictured on the cliffs and lowlands, chiming in the surge of 

seas. 
Glowing in the star-dust golden, blossoming in shrubs and 

trees, 
Beaming in the looks love-lighted of the tender and the true, 
Whispered by the lips of spirits sheltered from our mortal 

view. 
Speaking in our hopes and yearnings, and our dim dreams of 

the night, 
Tempering our tears and passion when a twin-soul takes its 

flight, 
Proving stronger and supremer as the world heaves high and 

higher 
From the depths of Superstition and the mists of low Desire! 
And this Revelation redeth that our Dead have never died — 
That it was the yoke and fetters only that they laid aside; 
That they live in Kingdom fairer than is lit by mortal sun, 
Thrilled with triumph at the conquest and the crown forever 

won — 
Live where purer joys and purer draw them to diviner plains. 
And forever reaching toward them some new happiness re- 
mains. 
Where with victor-songs of gladness they will welcome us at 

last. 
When the fitful frost and fever of our lives are overpast. 

What a gratifying and refreshing contrast is 
this strong language of heart and soul to the 
weak jingles of some of our latter-day poets, 
who "creep and grovel on the ground" and 
never soar above the dew-wet grass and the 

beautiful snow! 

* * * * 

After Edgar Allen Poe, the most brilliant 
poetic genius this country has produced, comes 
Will Hubbard-Kernan. It is only by reason 
of his pronounced Southern principles that 
he has been ignored by the literati of Boston 
and New York; but, fortunately, time and 
justice 

"At last make all things even," 



POEMS OF PESSIMISM 



THE CRY OF A CYNIC 

Had I known the world as I know it now 
In my boyhood I half believe that I 

Would have sworn me a stern, fierce, terri- 
ble vow 
Down unto my death to live a lie; 

To promise, yet never perform; to pose 
As a friend, while betraying all friendships 
here; 
To prate religion, while under the rose 

I struck through its quivering breast a 
spear. 

For I often think had I lived this lie, 
And lived it like many a man I see. 

That wealth or power or honor high 

As it came to them would have come to 
me; 

Nor would I have felt as I feel to-day. 

When I find how fickle is friendship here; 

For, ah! had I been but as false as they, 
I could answer a-back with a sneer for 
sneer; 

But — fool that I was! — I trusted so, 
And my love was leal as love could be, 

Ah! there is the bitterness of the blow 
That has smitten theinnermost soul of me. 

And as for the world that has hissed me 
down 
Unto depths I never had thought to know — 
2^ 



28 In the J tingle 

I turn away from its fleer and frown 
Despairing, for it hath deceived me so. 

Fool! fool that 1 was! in my trustful youth 
I thought this world was a world sublime 

That was struggling ever in search of Truth, 
And where Truth would triumph in time — 
in time; 

And I tried to teach it the Right as I 

Could see the Right, in my own weak wa}^ 

And it sprang upon me with curse and cry 
And is hounding me down like a dog to-da^^ 

But far between, and though few they be, 
Are good, grand souls in this world of 
shame. 

And the love and lilies they send to me 
Are more than fortune and more than fame; 

And when I remember these royal men 
I rise renewed in my sense and soul, 

And take up the trials of life again, 
And again press on to a golden goal. 



IN THE JUNGLE 

Tiger, tiger! in thy lair, 

Thou hast torn his limbs apart: 
O, the white bones lying there! 

O, the red half -eaten heart! 
O, the yellow locks beside thee 

That I often kissed and curled- 
Yet no hell -fire will betide thee 

In the waste beyond the world. 



In t/ir Jungle 29 

Tiger, tiger! from the sod, 

iVnd the vastitudes of sea, 
Thou wert molded by the God 

Who in glory molded me: 
Ashes, dust and air and fire 

Entered in our earthl}^ frame — 
Went to kindle my desire. 

Went to fan thee into flame. 

Tiger, tiger! blazing bright 

Are thine eyeballs as mine own — 
They the darkness ana the light 

Of revolving suns have known ; 
They have seen the jeweled June-light 

Sleeping in magnolia blooms. 
Seen the weird, mid-winter moonlight 

Shivering by solemn tombs. 

Tiger, tiger! though thy frame 

Is unlike my mortal parts, 
Yet the feelings are the same 

That have flashed within our hearts; 
For thy blood hath leap'd with passion. 

Languished with a strange unrest. 
And thy hatreds are in fashion 

With the hatreds in my breast. 

Tiger, tiger! this is why 

Thou hast slain my brave, sweet son, 
Yet the good God up on high 

Let the devil-deed be done. 
Atoms from far, countless places 

Met and mingled in thy form, 
Dust of old, dead realms and races — 

Memories of sun and storm. 

Tiger, tiger! from the flood 

And the cloud and wind and lea, 



30 In the Jungle 

Atoms mingled in my blood, 

And the lost boy bloomed for me; 

And these forces — separated 
By infinities of years — 

Met, and left me desolated 

In their death-march through the 
spheres. 

Tiger, tiger ! he was mine — 

He, the beautiful dead boy! 
Now thin^ eyeballs swim and shine 

With a strange and savage joy; 
And I see thy keen claws dripping 

With the blood that warmed his breast, 
And I hear thy hot lips sipping 

From the lips that mine have pressed. 

Tiger, tiger! I can see, 

Slipping through the jungle dim. 
One who is beloved of thee, 

And thou art beloved of him; 
Ay, beloved, for thou begat him. 

Just as I begat my boy. 
And I see thee pet and pat him 

With a sweet and savage joy. 

Tiger, tiger! twangs my bow. 

Flies my arrow through the air, 
And the golden lilies glow 

With his life-blood leaping there; 
And I hear thy wild, quick, pleading 

Cry of passion and of pain. 
And I see thee press the bleeding 

Body of thy baby slain. 

Tiger, tiger! this is life: 

Through the wide sweep of the sph'eres 
All the universe is rife 



Compensation 31 

With these tragedies and tears; 
And the gladdest sorg upswelling 

From the gayest heart to-day 
Brings it nearer to the knelling 

And the coffin-worm and clay. 



COMPENSATION 

They say I am mad, ha, ha! because 
I see the visions they cannot see, 

And — breaking through all of their little laws — 
I walk with the lover who went from me. 

Mad? mad? ha, ha! if they only knew 

How happy I've been since that strange far 
year, 

When I found that I had been born anew 
To a larger life and sublimer sphere! 

When was it? Oh, yes, — I remember now, 
In a dim, vague way that I saw his face, 

With a dash of blood on his darling brow. 
And a glad, sweet smile of immortal grace. 

Then all of their vulgar world went out, 

While the turbulent bells in the steeples beat, 

And thrilled and thundered the song and shout 
Of the crazy crowd in the stormy street; 

And, as I staggered, before that blank 
Lost feeling insensate befell me, I 

Heard pealing over the city rank 
And rotten the virulent victor-cry 1 



32 Compensation 

The)^ found me there when the mob had left, 
And they bound me there and they brought 
me here; 

But though of my reason I am beieft 
I live and love in a larger sphere. 

Ah! Leon! Leon! you come again! 

I was telling this clown that you came to 
me — 
A very miracle man of men 

In our sphere serene which he cannot see. 

Let us take a walk down yon aisle of trees 
Where the almonds are blossoming full and 
fair, 

And a voyage over the golden seas 
To the glory of which he is unaware. 

Stand back, oh, fool! From this cell I go 
With my dead to divinest heights. Ha! ha! 

If you only knew what we mad folk know 
You could bring the world into abject awe. 

But you cannot know it. We are a clan 

Who have broken through all of your laws, 
and we 

Hear miracle things that 3^ou never can — 
See miracle sights that you cannot see! 



VASHTI 

O, I feel the fragrant wind and I hear the waters 

sing, 
I see the sweet, wild roses blushing with the 

blood of spring, 
And the world leaps up to heaven as I hold 

thee to my breast "* 

In a swoon of perfect rapture, with a sense of 

perfect rest. 

But I waken with a start, 
And my torn and bleeding heart 
Cries unto Christ: "Have pity — let my soul 

and senses part!" 

There cometh no reply, and I rise and look 

abroad : 
It seemeth that the whole wide world hath 

turned away from God — 
Its garlands of glad forests that fringed the 

stainless sky, 
Its foamy lilies and the flame of tulips closer 

by. 

Its prairie-lands uncurled 
To the edges of the world, 
Where trilled the tuneful wild-birds with their 

jewel wings unfurled. 

Yes! The night hath swallowed up all the 

beauty and the bloom; 
Our planet reels and rolls away through awful 

gulfs of gloom; 
Within the lone, black, shuddering void the 

lost winds call and cry, 

33 



34 Vashti 

And from its craggy rim the sea makes piteous 
reply: 

Fit symbol and fit sign, 
O, heart — O, heart of mine! 
This fierce, complaining passion to the passion 
that is thine! 

I turn. The tire burns bright — with rosy rise 

and fall 
It lights a pure, seraphic face upon the pictured 

wall; 
O, Vashti! Vashti! Thou wert love and hope 

and life to me — 
Then come from out the vague Unknown and 
take me unto thee. 

Bliss — bliss ineffable. 
Divine with thee to dwell 
Upon the white calm heights of heaven or in 
the heart of hell! 

In the radiant rose-years of my bright and 

buoyant youth. 
When my life was lapped in pleasure and 

my world was masked in truth, 
When with color, life and melody the jocund 

days were rife, 
Like a dream of heaven made real came thy 

love into my life. 

In that witching world of mine 
Was no separating line 
Between my heaven and the heaven where 

saints triumphant shine. 

But this was not for long — a wild March morn- 
ing came 

That woke no song within the wood nor touched 
our star with flame. 

And thou in thy fair bridal robes lay still and 



Vashti 



35 



Within thy blood no fire, within thy folded 
lids no light. 

Why was it ordered so 
That I thy love must know 
For one brief diamond day and then forever- 
more forego? 

Unjust! unjust! I hold, for .the world is wide — 

is wide; 
Why should I with thy love be dowered to 

have it thus denied? 
Out of the infinite of Time, the vastitudes of 

Space, 
O, why should Fate foreorder it that w'e meet 

face to face? 

Why swept no seas between 
Thy way and mine, my queen? 
Why lay no long-drawn centuries betwixt our 

lives terrene? 

O, had 1 never seen thy fair, sweet Southern 
face, 

Nor folded thee in ecstasy w^ithin my fond em- 
brace, 

How happy would have been my heart that now 
is crucified, 

How full of flower every hope that with thee 
drooped and died! 

Why w^as it ordered so? 
It was not chance, I know. 

It was a Curse that rules the world, and ruins 
all below! 

But, look! the storm is stilled, and there is no 

more night. 
The shining signals of the morn move on from 

height to height; 



36 W/iat IS the Use 

The glory of the gods shine through the blue, 

rtanslucent sky, 
And vineyard, field and flood lift up a jubilant, 
sweet cry. 

O, heart — O, heart of mine! 
Is it symbol, is it sign 
Of a resurrection morning that will ransom 
thee and thine? 



WHAT IS THE USE? 

What is the use of it all? — I said. 
As we sat in the argent after-glow — 

All are dying who are not dead. 
And unto the end it will be so. 

Love; but the one whom you love will pass 
In blooming beauty, some dark, mad day, 
To fatten the grave-worms under the grass: 
Yet this is a jolly old world, you say! 

Build ; and the temple you build w^ill fall — 
Frieze and pillar and altar-stone — 

Over its ruins will reptiles crawl, 

And the ivy wave in the winds that moan. 

Work; and the gold that you work to 
win- 
That you fret and worry and strive to 
save 
Is spsiit in folly and shaniB and sin 

When you are dust in a dreamless grave. 



What is the Use? 37 

Capture the laurel-leaves of fame 

Where they bourgeon out of the blood of 
men; 

Conquer a nimbus for your name 
By the miracle-power of the pen; 

But the garlands of glory will fade awa}^ 
And thy name be lost in the dim, dumb 
years : 
Where are the heroes ere Adam's day — 
Their flaming thoughts and their flash- 
ing spears? 

They prate of a phantom-world afar, 
Beyond the mold and the marble urn, 

Beyond the fire of the furthest star, 

Where life is immortal and love eterne. 

But I am no dupe of their priestly dreams; 

They know of nothing that is to be; 
The light that out of their heaven streams 

Is the self-same light that shines on me. 

I hear the voices they hear, and I 
See every sign that they behold, 

But dumb as death is the stainless sky, 
Invisible are the gates of gold. 

Thro' the sum and sweep of the countless 
years, 

Humbly at many a countless shrine, 
Men and women have wept their tears. 

Or quaffed to the lees communion wine; 

But never a gleam of glory fell 

In splendor athwart the altar-stone, 

And never a sound but the passing-bell, 
Smiting the air with its awful tone. 



38 Agatha 

They have stormed the stars with their 
passion-cry 
For hope or mercy or justice here — 
Plead that their darlings should never 
die — 
Plead with many a sob and tear. 

Folly! for never an answer came, 

And never an arrow was turned away; 

It? sped to its beautiful mark the same, 
Whether they prayed or scorned to pray. 

From cradle to coffin we struggle and seek, 
Till the fugitive years of our lives are 
past; 
But whether our lot be blessed or bleak, 
We are tossed like dogs to the worms at 
last. 

What is the use of it all, I say? 

Why are we brought from the blank Un- 
known 
To weep and dance through a little day 

That drifts us under a burial-stone? 



AGATHA 

Agatha ! 

Agatha! 
Here in the desolate shadows and silence 
I cry unto thee. 

As out of the bloomland 

That was, and the tombland 
That is, comes the ghost of thy glory to me! 



Agatha 3g 

I see a vague vision elysian, of flowery 
fields and of forests that know me 
no more. 
O, trancefulest thyland! 
Memorial myland! 

How far I have wandered away from thy 
shore! 

The low yellow moon of the June in the 
purple abysm of heaven-lit tower and 
tree, 
As there in thy splendorful, 
Wistful and tenderful 
Beauty my soul was surrendered to thee. 

Agatha! 
Agatha! 
There in the moonlight that flickered and 
flashed through each blossomy bough, 
With breast to my breast, sweet. 
In raptureful rest, sweet, 
Thy virgin lips uttered the infinite vow. 

Mine, mine in th}' truthful, 
Brave, questionless, youthful 
Devotion, till death threw its portals ajar; 
Mine, mine in the vernal 
Sun-valleys supernal. 
Beyond the pale shroud and the palpitant 

star! 
But the battle-drums beat, and I bade thee 
farewell 
To fight for a rag of a flag, and a cause 
That had its roots down in the under- 
most hell. 
And its flowers and fruits were the lies 

we call laws! 
Ah! I was a fool in that far-away time, 



40 The Vanishing Isle 

Mistaught to believe in the sham and the 
shame 
That in code and in charter have crystal- 
lized crime, 

To blossom in blood and to flower in flame. 

Like devils we fought a fell, desperate fight. 
Till our vexil in victory flashed on the height 
Of the last shattered bulwark, and then, with 

my sword 
Uplifted to heaven, I knelt to the Lord — 
I knelt to the Lord on that wild battle-plain 
Beside a dead youth that my rifle had slain — 
Beside a dead youth — with a sharp, sudden cry 
I turned the bright brow from the dust to the 

sky. 

O, God, with a terrible thunderbolt smite 
Me out of thy love and thy life and thy light! 
It was Agatha! — clad in the garments of war: 
In her hand was a sword — on her shoulder a 

star — 
In her breast was the bullet my rifle had sped — 
The bullet that struck my whole universe dead! 



THE VANISHING ISLE 

Under the willows, the glad green willows. 
We walked that hour in June — in June— 

And the songs of the breezes and birds and 
billows 
Were all in tune. 

"Ah, see!" cried Ion, with subtle smile. 



The Vanishing Isle 41 

"Yon isle — yon blossoming, blissful isle!" 
And she waved her little white hand to 

where 
Magnolias tossed in the amber air, 
On the strand of an isle that idly lay 
In the pulsing heart of the purple bay, 
Where palaces lifted their walls of gold 
And jeweled minarets; and, behold, 
The peerless parterres that are all afire 
With flowers that ravish the last desire! 

"Boatman!" she said, and she crossed his 

hand 
With gold as she gave him the strange 

command, 
Boatman! O, let us taste awhile 
The rare delights of yon charmful isle." 

'Nay, damosel, for that isle lies 
In an alien land under alien skies, 
And we cannot reach it before the doom 
Has swept us all to the tomb — the tomb!" 

"Pah!" and she cheerily laughed, "a mile 
Will see us there on the trancefui isle. " 

"Then come!" said the boatman. And we 

went 
Through the miracle morn that was inter- 
blent 
With sunbeams, over the waters bright 
And blue, in a spell of rapt delight. 
Ah, miracle morn! Our hearts beat high 
With love — with a wonderful love — and I 
Was ravished with jubilant joy — for, O, 
Her promise was mine and her presence 

sweet 
Made life in its largest mood complete — 
For I loved her so! For 1 loved her so! 



42 Inez 

f 
Noon came; but the isle was far away 
In the pulsing heart of the purple bay. 
I looked at Ion: her face was wan 
And wrinkles under her eyes were drawn, 
And half of her life was gone — was gone! 

Dusk; but the isle was far away 
In the pulsing heart of the purple bay; 
And a storm swept up from the under-sea 
With trumps of thunder and flags of flame; 
I turned to Ion. And was it she 

Who mumbled to me — was she the same 
Bright, buoyant maid of the golden morn — 
This woman haggard and gra}^ and worn? 

I turned to the boatman and, lo! for he 
Was dead, and his bare skull grinned at 

me — 
Grinned in a devilish kind of way; 
And the isle — the vanishing isle — lay 
Long, terrible leagues away — away! 



INEZ 

Through the mists of the roses as red as wine 
I see the splendor of sunset shine; 
It brightens the blossoming valley and leaps 
To the ultimate snows on the vapory steeps; 
While over the hills in the Occident skies 
The walls of a wonderful city rise. 



Out of this convent dim some day 

1 shall pass to that place away- — awav; 



hiez 43 

I shall meet with my warrior bright and brave 
Who perished the shrine of the Prince to save. 



Years of splendor and storm have passed 
Since I prest the lips of my lover last- 
Since over the waste of the sand and sea 
He went in the dark, wild dawn from me, 
With shining helmet and sable plume 
To meet on the red war-plain his doom. 



One night of thunder and wind there came 

A palmer weary and old and lame, 

And kneeling in homage beside me there 

He gave me a glittering lock of hair, 

A jeweled picture, a jasmine flower 

That once had blossomed within my bower. 

"He is dead?" I spake with a rush of tears 

That blotted the sunshine from out my years. 

"Yes, ladye, yes but he sent with me 

These emblems of endless love to thee!" 



I turned with a low, heart-broken moan 
To kneel by the cold, pale altar-stone, 
Until, through the oriel window old. 
The morning blossomed in blue and gold; 
And then, while clashed the cathedral bell, 
I wailed to the world a fond farewell: 
Farewell, O, beautiful marble towers! 
Farewell, O, gardens of glowing flowers! 
Farewell, O, waltzers and songs and wine! 
Farewell, O, musical lyre mine! 
Farewell, O, friends in thy joy and mirth! 
Farewell, O, pitiful pomps of earth! 
I renounce ye all for the convent dim 
And the heavenly city that holdeth him!" 



44 Patriotism 



What! did he die for a nameless sin 

And not by the lances of Saladin? 

Shall I on the heights of the holy dwell 

While he writhes in the uttermost pits of hell? 

Shall eternity sever my love and me? 

By the Holy Rood, it shall never be! 

Out in the depths of the wicked town, 

Where they trample the roses of purity down, 

I will sell myself to the lusts of men! 

I will riot in many a gilded den! 

I will curse the Lord with m}' latest breath 

As I rot away in the arms of Death! 

Deep in the outer darkness then 

He will clasp me close to his breast again, 

And hell shall a perfect Paradise be 

Unto the soul of my soul and me! 



PATRIOTISM 

I would not lift my hand to stay 
One flag up-floating in the skies; 

They all are symbols of a swa}^ 
That hath its root in leprous lies. 

This patriot talk, this puerile talk 
Of duty done with blade and brand. 

These badges for the brave who balk 
The fell invaders of a land, 

Are hollow mockeries; the old 
Hell-fire burns in every cause; 

The few find glory, place and gold, 
And make and minister the laws; 



Harold 45 

What time the many who have borne 
The heat and burden of the fray 

Are left — though poor and bullet-torn — 
The debt and sacrifice to pay. 

And though the lamps of Science shine 
Illuminant from zone to zone, 

And though the race in ransomed line, 
Files up at last unto its throne, 

And though we boast of conquests highei 
In Truth than our forefathers knew, 

We still are slaves unto desire, 

With blood our hands we still imbrue. 

My harp shall strike a higher key 
Than lust or blasting battle-call, 

And though no after-bards there be 
To follow where my foot-prints fall, 

Yet I will know that I have sought 
To help and royalize my race, 

And lift it from the wrath and rot 
Into a glory and a grace! 



HAROLD 

What do you think since your day has come, 
And she takes you tenderly by the hand, 

And you find that your lips are forever dumb, 
Though your heart is sobbing to say farewell. 

Ere you journey off from this lower land 
To the land of which travelers never tell? 

What do you think as you hear her cries 
And the cries of your children blent in one? — 



46 Harold 

As you look in the depths of their darling eyes, 
And know that you never again will meet, 

That your labor and love and life are done 
And the uttermost measure is incomplete? 

Do you think that you did the diviner part 
In wooing a wife in your rare rose-years — 

Knowing your heart from her loving heart 
Would sooner or later be torn away — 

Be torn away, while the bloody tears 

Of a last despair would be hers some day? 

Do you think it was god-like to give the flame 
And passion of life to your children fair, 

Knowing through sorrow, or want, or shame. 
They would pass to the greedy grave at last 

And surfeit the red-throat reptiles there 
When this wild drama is overpast? 

O, fool! fool! fool! Since the passion-spell 
And pleasure of love are leaving now. 

Where is the song of the bridal-bell, 
The scent of the bridal-lilies sweet, 

The bliss of the bridal-chamber vow 

In the shadow white of the winding-sheet? 

Behold! She is bending beside you now, 

And storming the Gates of God with prayer; 

The bridal blossoms upon her brow 

To stinging serpents have turned to-day, 

Her rapture has turned to a mad despair 
As you drift o*er the dim, still seas away. 

Behold your children! To them you gave 
The pitiless curse and cross of life — 

The duty to struggle and dree and slave — 
They must tread on the plow-shares red with 
fire, 



Harold 47 

Their hearts must break in the bloody strife, 
They must pant in the toils of a vain desire. 

They may reach their hands for the splendid 
stars, 

For the laurel-leaf and the princely plume, 
They may ride at last in their victor-cars, 

And then, in the proud, sweet flush of fame, 
Be swept like dogs to the dirty tomb 

To rot like the ruffian spawn of shame. 

Or, failing to realize the dreams 

That gilded with glory this lying life, 

They will turn to a beautiful sin that seems 
A recompense for their lost desire. 

Who will be guilty? The man and wife 

Who gave to these beings their blood and fire. 

Reproach me not in your dying-hour, 
I told you the truth in my friendship leal, 

But, held in the spell of a subtle power. 

You mocked at me then with a scoff and 
sneer; 

To-day the terrible truth you feel — 
Its thorny crown and its savage spear. 

Farewell! No further will I upbraid, 
Nor seek revenge by returning now 

The bitter and biting things you said 
When under the stars of Tennessee 

You spake of your silly betrothal-vow 

And turned like a traitor then from me — 

Turned like a traitor, because I plead 
With you to recall your betrothal-ring; 

Turned like a traitor, because I said 

That life should end with our race to-day: 

You spurned me then like a leper thing, 
.And passed to this awful fate away. 



48 George Eliot 



He is dead! Well, better that he should die, 
And under the myrtle-blossoms be, 

Than live and, living, should learn what I 
Have learned of his boy, whose hands are red 

With the blood of a dead man known to me. 
Thank God! My Harold is dead— is dead! 



GEORGE ELIOT 



We crowned her brow the queen of such wide fame 
As seldom man's more aidant thoughts hath wooed; 

But still our hearts were heavy for the shame 
She wrought to womanhood. 

— Literary World. 

O, knave! O, more than knave! 
Why should she bear the brand? 
And why proclaim 
Her sin and shame 
From land to furthest land, 

While men of leprous lust 

With harlots hold their court, 
And wear the bays 
Through all their da3^s 
Undimmed by ill-report? 

And hath this sin a sex? 
And shall we bar the gate 

To maiden who 

Hath proved untrue 
And fallen from her state, 

What time we welcome in 
The man who wrought her woe? 



Harold 

No, never, by 
The God on high, 
With me shall this be so! 

George Eliot, no peer 

Of thine will hiss thy name: 
'Twill brighter burn 
Through years eterne, 
Though devil-prudes defame. 

I hold this truth as true, 
All love is lust at best; 

No mumbling priest 

Nor wedding-feast 
Things beastly can make blest. 

And though no bridal-bell 
Chimed in thy coupled life, 
Thou art as free 
Of stain as she 
Who hath become a wife. 

Though Church and State befool, 
Me they cannot bedaff; 

I strip their lies 

Of all disguise. 
While in my sleeve I laugh. 

I laugh when I behold 

The bridegroom and the bride 
At altar-shrine, 
By sleek divine 
With ring and pledge allied. 

For well, full well, I know 
That passion hath full sway 

Behind the flush 

And modest blush 
That o'er their features play. 



49 



50 Geraldine of the Graeme 

And were no sexual fire 
Within our veins, I see 

That nevermore 

On sea or shore 
Would any weddings be. 

And louder still I laugh 
When to a wedded pair 

A babe is born: 

The mask is torn 
Forever from them there; 

And forth they stand confessed 
Of all their sly delights, 

The same that they 

In mansions gay 
And guilty take o' nights. 

Thus, though the world o'erlaid 
With gloss and glitter be, 
They cannot hide 
The under-side 
Of life and love from me. 



GERALDINE OF THE GRAEME 

The silvery lances of twilight fall 
In the roses tangled around my sill, 

And over the green, old garden-wall 

The jasmines shine and the jasmines 
spill. 

The beck is babbling a summer song 
As it bubbles over the sand and stone; 



Genildine of the Graeme 51 

The wind blows sweet and the wind blows 
strong 
From weaves unseen and from wilds 
unknown. 

And out of the purple south away, 
With a love as tender as love can be, 

In the magic light of the dying day 
My bold, bright Carolyn comes to me. 

^ * ^ ^; ^ 

The red moon rose over trees and towers, 
And staggered under a cloud with shame, 

And the wind sobbed low in the ferns and 
flowers — 
Sobbed low for Geraldine of the Graeme. 

Then with a terrible trumpet-peal 

It summoned the storms from the fur- 
thest skies, 
And the sea swirled over the sand and 
sheal, 
And answered aback with its curdling 
cries. 

Tree and turret and river and rock 

Glared for a moment and then were gone 

In the titan-smite of a thunder shock, 
Like the crack of chaos at judgment- 
dawn. 

But over the storm that split the sky, 
And over its clangor on sod and sea, 

Was heard a long, wild, pitiful cry: 

"My daughter — my daughter! O where 
is she?" 

Laughing and leaping through rose and dew 
The miracle morning comes once more; 



52 Gc nil dine of the Graeme 

Never before was the sky so blue, 
And never the world so fair before. 

The rain-drops ripple from turf and tree, 
And quiver and quiver with hearts of 
fire, 

And daintily over the leaf and lea 

The zephyrs hang with a sweet desire. 

The lark is winging and warbling up 
Out of the grass through the golden air; 

Lily to lily waves its cup 

And drinks of dew to the roses rare. 

Sing the fountains and shines the flood — 
Shines the grass and the greenwoods 
sing- 
But, hold! for here is a trail of blood! 
And here, O, Christ! her betrothal-ring! 



A sunken grave in a churchyard gray, 

A handful of dust, a dishonored name. 
And a wan, white phantom that walks, 
they say, 
Through the dim, old rooms of the 
haunted Graeme. 



But Carolyn sits in his pomp and pride, 
To-day, in a splendid hall of state; 

His wife and children are by his side 
And crowds of courtiers upon him wait. 

They know that he lured her down to doom 
With lies as crafty as lies can be; 

But what do they care, in that gilded room, 
Where they revel and dance and jest in 
glee? 



Dorothy 55 

What do they care? He is a man, 
And woman is always a proper prey; 

It has been so since the world began, 
And thus w^ill forever be, they say. 



DOROTHY 

I stand on the windy headland where we stood 

in the yester-years; 
I gaze on our green, low valle}^ through the 

blur of m}^ burning tears, 
And think of a slain September afar in a pulse- 
less past — 
A beautiful, brave September that was too 

bright to last. 
O, Dorothy! O, my Dorothy! it was here that 

I met with thee 
One balmy and brilliant morning that was fai 

too blest to be — 
One fairy and fateful morning, with never a 

voice to warn, 
As up to the very heavens the soul of myself 

was borne. 

I see thee now in the splendor and flush of thy 

flowery ^^outh — 
Serene in thy witching beauty, supreme in thy 

matchless truth; 
And all through that brief September — the 

briefest my life hath known — 
I reveled in maddest rapture, for thou wert 

mine now — mine own. 



54 Dorothy 

Then jealousy came between us with whispers 

I cannot name. 
O, fall on me, rocks and mountains, for I was 

alone to blame — 
For I, in my reckless anger, spake sharply a 

last farewell, 
And plunged from the highest heaven to the 

deepest deeps of hell! 

^ ?fC ^ Jfc ^ 

Over the world I wandered, from zone to the 

furthest zone, 
Till I knew all the pains and passions that 

ever to man were known — 
Had seen all the mystic marvels of nature in 

noblest guise; 
Had stood in the grandest temples that tower 

beneath the skies; 

Had met with the mightiest leaders of life in 

this lower sphere. 
But, ah! through it all, beloved, my heart was 

forever here. 
And now that the calm September hath come 

to our world once more 
I stand on the windy headland where we stood 

in the years of yore; 

I gaze on the green, low valley, unchanged 
since I saw it last. 

Save out of its sweet seclusion the self ot my- 
self hath passed, 

Save out of its sweet seclusion the soul of my 
soul hath fled. 

O Dorothy!— O my darling! — art thou dead, 
and forever dead? 

H: * * * * * 

Ah! who is that woman standing down there by 
the rocky shore? 



Dorothy 55 

She seems like a dream made real from ra- 
diant days of yore ; 

The grace of her every motion, the tint of her 
gleaming hair — 

I surely have seen that woman — have seen her 
— but when and where? 

And why are my pulses leaping as they leapt 

that September tide 
Before the desire of living from out of my life 

had died? 
O, Jesu! it is my beloved! — O, Jesu! it is my 

bride! 

He ran down the cliff and, turning, she stood 

transfixed, while he 
Caught her close in a stormy passion of a joy 

too vast to be. 
"Speak! speak!" he panted. "O darling! the 

desolate years have passed, 
And I — I have come to claim thee — at last — O, 

my love! — at last!" 

He staggered and fell — a bullet had cloven his 
heart in twain. 

"Ha! ha!" laughed the woman loudly, "my 
waiting was not in vain!" 

And to-day in a grim old mad-house she glee- 
fully clanks her chain. 



KENNETH, MY KING 

Thy marvelous beauty, my blue-eyed boy, 
Shines starry-like through the lurid years, 

Till I flush with the old, fierce, fetterless jo}^ 
Forgetful of time and tears. 

As I saw thee then I can see thee now: 
The passionful love on thy perfect face, 

The golden locks on thy brave, white brow 
Tossed back with a nameless grace. 

And, holding thy harp in thy slim, white 
hands — 
Ah! the harp and the hands are but dust 
to-day — 
I hear thee sweeping its silvery strands 
In thy own wild, peerless way. 

Spell-bound I listen until it seems 

That I live in the light of thy love once 
more, 

And revel in all of the strange, sweet dreams 
That never fruition bore; 

And my dead hopes rise from their funeral 
pyres 

As blessed and beautiful as of old; 
And high in my heart spring the sacred fires 

That never were quenched nor cold. 

O, Kenneth, my king! I joyfully cry, 
Stretching my arms to thy vision there 

To clasp it close to my heart — but I 
Clasp only the empty air! 
56 



Kins: Custom 



57 



And I waken again to the awful truth, 
As black and bitter as truth can be, 

That heaven was lost in my hapless youth, 
Beloved, in losing thee. 

Yet if unsealing thy cofifin-lid 

I could bring thee back with one old, fond 
kiss 
On thy beautiful face, I would forbid 

Myself the infinite bliss. 

For sweeter by far is the dumb, blank rest 
In thy windowless palace beneath the sod, 

Than life in a world where life at best 
Is only a fleeting fraud — 

Is only a fugitive fraud, where friends 

Clasp hands and sever with sad farewells, 

Where the jubilant bridal or banquet ends 
In the moan of the funeral-bells. 



KING CUSTOM 

I have heard men bravely brag 

That our land at least is free — 
Heard them say our star-lit fiag 

Symbolizes liberty. 
But the}^ knew their lips were lying — 

Knew that they were shackled slaves 
Of a monarch, whose undying 

Power tracks them to their graves. 

Custom is that monarch. He 

Sways the Church and Camp and Court, 



58 King Custom 

Makes and molds society, 

Enters into every sport, 
And he sets the silly fashions 

Of the men and women folk, 
And he bringeth all the passions 

Underneath his iron yoke. 

Though a hand from heaven sows 

Seeds that sprout and spring to vines, 
Bearing fruit that gleams and glows 

With its joyous wealth of wines, 
If ye quaff the red, ripe juices — 

Grown and given for use of man — 
Custom, without terms or truces, 

Forthwith brings you under ban. 

If you hold yourself aloof 

From the mob, you soon will hear 
Custom crying: "This is proof 

That the man is cracked and queer." 
Then he summons up his rabble. 

And he winks to them their cue, 
And, with smirk or curse, they gabble 

That their master speaketh true. 

If belief should leave your soul. 

The belief in creed and church, 
If you question their control, 

If you leave them in the lurch. 
If you lift your eyes to Reason 

As the pole-star of the world. 
Custom shrieks out, "Treason! treason!" 

And his shaft at you is hurled. 

If your taste is pure and high. 
All undimmed by things below, 

If you, with a calm, cold eye, 
Look on life's vainglorious show, 



Ki7ig Custotn 59 

See no beauty in the faces 

Nor the forms of womankind, 
To their vaunted gifts and graces 

Are by nature wholly blind — 

Then King Custom with a hiss, 

Like a serpent in your track. 
Howls unto his mob at this, 

And they hiss and howl aback; 
And how quick they be to utter 

False surmise in whispers loud; 
And how swift they be to mutter 

Things as vulgar as the crowd! 

Thus King Custom holdeth sway 

Over all our hills and plains; 
Many long to break away 

From his mandates and his chain 
But they weakly fear and falter 

At the wrath that would await, 
So they ponder and the}^ palter, 

And submit unto their fate. 

Unto this King Custom I, 

Never will my homage yield; 
His decrees 1 will defy 

Till my sepulcher is sealed; 
I will own no other master 

Than the good God over all, 
Though it doom me to disaster 

Till the final shadows fall. 



IDALIA 

"O, follow, follow me!" cried Love, as in the 

jasper skies 
The morning pearled, and made the world a 

perfect Paradise — 
The morning pearled: its vexile flashed, and 

flamed its victor blades, 
As back it drove the darkness from the glad 

heights and the glades. 

"O, follow, follow me!" cried Love. Idalia fol- 
lowed where 

He led her, through the low, sweet fields of 
asphodel, and there 

The larks rained down their golden song from 
out the purple air. 

He led her through the vineyards where the 

blue grape-clusters hung. 
And through the dewy pleasaunce where the 

crimson roses swung, 
And the 3/ellow-winged canaries in the olean 

ders sung, 
And life was like a fairy-tale, and all the world 

was young. 

And on and on she followed, till they came 

unto a land 
Where a river clanged forever through a wild, 

weird waste of sand — 
Through the rushes clanged forever, and the 

blinding sunlight shone 
On a serpent, coiled and hissing, by a ruined 

altar-stone. 

60 



Idalia 6i 

And on and on he led her, though her bleeding 

footprints showed 
That the cruel rocks had torn her as she jour- 

ne\-ed on the road ; 
And on and on she followed, till the Darkness 

came once more, 
Camping with its conquering legions on the 

sea and on the shore. 

Where was now the brave, bright Morning? 

Where were now its swords of fire? 
Where were now its sweet delusions? Where 

was now its strong desire? 
Cold and dumb and stark forever doth its 

bleeding body lie, 
And its proud, imperial banners shine no 

longer in the sky; 
While the Darkness— drunk with triumph — 

calls the Tempest o'er the rim 
Of the under world, to riot in fierce revelry 

with him. 

"Love, where are you? ' sighs Idalia, but there 

cometh no reply: 
Tears the wind across the desert, dash the 

cloud-racks through the sky. 
And the lightning hurls its lances, and the 

thunder-drums beat high. 

"Love, where are you?" cries Idalia, as she 

sinks upon her track: 
"Love, where are you?" sobs Idalia, but he 

sends no answer back; 
"Love, where are you?" shrieks Idalia. From 

the ruined altar-stone 
Comes a curdling peal of laughter, ending in 

an awful moan; 



62 Idalia 

And a skeleton reels forward; there is cypress 
on its brow, 

And a ring upon its finger; and it cries: "As I 
am now 

Will you be, O, poor, lost maiden! for you fol- 
lowed Love away; 

For you followed Love who leadeth hither only 
to betray; 

For you followed Love, who lureth only to de- 
sert at last. 

When the first fresh dew and blossom of our 
beauty is o'erpast. 

I was once a bonny lassie in a glad, green land 
away; 

Through the dear old household places I went 
singing all the day; 

But Love sought me as a victim, and I ven- 
tured in his train. 

And I gave to him a jewel that I never might 
regain; 

Then there came a few sweet moments of mad 
rapture, but no more 

Was the world, or life, or heaven, what they 
always were before; 

Still 1 followed him, and followed, under many 
a stranger sky, 

Till he left me here — deserted — in an hour like 

this — to die." 

***** 

She is lying where the river clangs through 

rushes sere and brown, 
With the ring of her betrothal that had brought 

no bridal-crown — 
Where the river clangs forever with a warning 

under-tone, 
Where the serpent coils and hisses by the 

ruined altar-stone. 



The Solitude of Self 63 

Over her the vultures hover, and with talons 

keen they tear 
From her face, and limbs and bosom all the 

beauty that was there, 
Till her skeleton lies bleaching in that desert 

dim and bare. 

With her little babe beside her that had never 
breathed of life, 

There they find the poor, lost mother who had 
never been a wife — 

There they find her, where the river clangs 
forever through the sand — 

Only one of many maidens lured into that aw- 
ful land. 



THE SOLITUDE OF SELF 

The loneliest thing in this lonely sphere 
Is self, in its prison of flesh and bone ; 

Between the closest of comrades here 
Is a wall as thick as a wall of stone. 

There are thoughts we think that we cannot 
tell 
To any being of woman born. 
For the fetters of language they repel 

And spurn with a proud, quick, reckless 
scorn. 

Eyes cannot express, nor touch translate, 
The dreams refulgent that come to me; 

Nor the burning love, nor the blasting hate, 
Nor the truths supreme that my soul can 
see. 



64 The Solitude of Self 

When skies at sundown are splashed with fire 
A vivified vision mine eyes behold, 

And I look with a look of a rapt desire 
On castles of glory and cliffs of gold, 

Where seas of jasper in jewels break 

On shoals of beauty and shores of bloom, 

Where never and never a heart shall ache, 
On the awful verge of an open tomb. 

I try to mutter the thoughts that come 
To me in the hush of the half-light then; 

But, ah! for my lips are dumb, and dumb 
To me are the lips of my fellow-men. 

No matter if I should cry and call 

Till my tones went tingling unto the stars, 

Man could not hear me — for, O, the wall 
Between us forever! It bars — it bars! 

And thus when I struggle my love to speak, 
Its infinite secret I cannot name — 

For words are pulseless and cold and weak, 
And wanting the force of the vital flame. 

And so with the eloquent hate eterne 

That I have and hold for the whelps of 
wrong — 
Its fell, fierce fury I cannot burn 

And brand in the brain of the brutish 
throng. 

I cannot tell them the strong, sublime 
Contempt I feel for their laws, ah, me! 

For vicious virtue, and Christian crime, 
And serf-hood singing that it is free. 

I cannot impart the immortal flame 

Of the truths I own to these churlish clods 



Guiieau 65 

Who sanctify every sham and shame, 
And say they were given them by their gods. 

Thus lonely, ahl lonely, each wends his way 
To the shadows and silence, and never 
knows 

The souls that walk with him day by day 
To the restful palace and last repose. 



GUITEAU 



I will sing a song that never brother-bard hath 

sung to thee, 
For the spirit of its rhythm is revealed alone 

to me. 
May be on the heights of Heaven seraphs sing 

it to their lyres, 
May be in the depths of Hades devils shriek it 

in the fires; 
But I know not, and ye know not; hearken to 

its hopeless strain, 
And deny it or defy it, still its ripened truths 

remain: 



Nothing is that is not ordered by an over-rul- 
ing Power, 

From the master march of planets to the soft 
fringe of a fiower; 

We are nothing more than puppets, and this 
Power pulls the string, 
5 



66 Guiteau 

Making of that man a menial, making of this 

clown a king; 
Models one in manly beauty, perfect he in 

every part, 
Great in mind, and grand, majestic, in the im- 
pulse of his heart, 
Marvelous, serene and lofty, born the masses to 

command 
With a look, a tone, a motion of his white, 

bejeweled hand. 
He, the stately one and saintly, seldom feels 

the spur of sin, 
And can stay it and suppress it by the master 

will within; 
His are gold and love and glory, and the 

faith that sees afar 
^n unending life of rapture o'er the blue rim 

of our star. 

Ill 

But behold a fellow-mortal fashioned on an- 
other plan: 

Coarse, deformed, and misbegotten — more a 
devil than a man — 

Heir to sin and want and sorrow, born with- 
out a sense of shame. 

Stung by sharp, keen, fierce desires burning in 
his blood like flame; 

Weak, unbalanced and repulsive — reveling in 
sensual things. 

If he hath a soul within him 'tis a soul that 
never sings — 

'Tis a soul that hath no wings! 

If he speeds the blasting bullet through the 
heart of fellow-man. 

Blameless he, for it was bidden when the uni- 
verse began; 



Guitcau 67 

He was born without the power or the impulse 

to forbear 
When the dumb, resistless forces of the cycles 

centered there; 
That which gave him life had given passions 

that impelled him here; 
Circled him with strong temptations from his 

birth-cry to his bier; 
Formed the hour and circumstances; placed 

the pistol in his hand, 
But withheld the strength and schooling his 

impulses to command. 

IV 

Nothing is that is not ordered by an over-rul- 
ing Power, 

From the master-march of planets to the soft 
fringe of a flower; 

From the Charity that standeth with its sunny 
wings unfurled, 

While her white hands shower blessings and 
her sweet lips kiss the world, 

Unto Crime, with bloody bullet^ flaming torch 
and dripping blade, 

Stalking over tombs and ruins his destroying 
hand has made. 

If athrough the mists phantasmal with the saints 
we walk in rhyme. 

If our hearts are set to music of a melody sub- 
lime, 

If we wade with knife and fagot through the 
blood our hands have spilt, 

From that Power came our glory, from that 
Power came our guilt. 



DE PROFUNDIS 

Where the singing groves of summer glittered 
in the crystal calm, 
Wave the black, funereal branches, O, so 
bleakly! to and fro; 

Where the blithe, capricious linnet poured its 
pure, impassioned psalm 
In the bright syringa bushes, drifts the deso- 
lating snow; 

While the harvest-twinkling hill-tops — traced 
on the translucent blue 

In the splendor-hearted summer — fade in spec- 
tral fogs from view, 

And the wan, wild dusk descendeth over trees 
and tarns away, 

As I think of friends departed in and out the 
grave to-day. 

Over seas and over sand-wastes some upon the 
earth-plane still 
Think of thee, O, poor, proud spirit! beat- 
ing at thy prison-bars; 

Of the old time by the yule-log, when the 
Christmas blasts blew chill, 
Or in cool, calm groves, green-raftered, where 
the roses shone like stars! 

Dear hearts! nevermore to know thee — never- 
more — O, dark decree, 

Thus to meet one merry season, but to sepa- 
rated be: 

Better thrid the thorns unfriended by the 
throngs of thoughtless men 

Than to meet the true and tender thus to weep 
farewells again! 
68 



De Profundis 69 

Underneath the waving willows in the calm, 
old kirk3^ard low, 
Some are dreamless dust forever, as our- 
selves at last will be; 

Yet this life of flowers and feasting is the only 
life we'll know, 
And this life of pain and parting is the only 
hell we'll see. 

Wo! I saw the waxen cere-cloths, wet with un- 
availing tears; 

Wo! I saw the funeral torches flaming by their 
plume-proud biers; 

Thus the dismal yester-shadows dim the sun- 
shine of to-day; 

Ah, if Memory could perish. Misery would 
pass awa}^ 

Fate, O, Fate! Why mock and madden us with 
beautiful, bright eyes. 
With loose locks of golden glory, and with 
wine-red, winning lips. 

With cool, creamy arms that clasp us in a per- 
fect Paradise — 
Then the vivid, saintly vision let the coffin- 
lid eclipse? 

Better never live, O, mortal! — thus I hold with 
bated breath — 

Than to drop .into the darkness, ah, so desolate, 
of death; 

Better never love, I whisper in my wickedness 
once more, 

Than to see our idols shattered at the shrines 
where we adore! 



BRITOMARTE 

It was not much that I implored of Fate: 

I did not ask for bays to crown my brow; 

I did not ask for gold to gild my home; 

I did not ask for liberty from toil; 

Nay, none of these were plead for in my prayer; 

And yet the one sweet blessing that I craved 

Has been denied me by my destiny. 

I only asked that I might have a friend, 

Whose looks would lighten when he saw my 

face. 
Whose voice would soften when he spake to 

me, 
Whose hand would tremble, when he took my 

hand. 
With thrills of bliss because it pressed my 

palm; 
Who would not see my faults — would only see 
My better self, all unobscured by sin; 
Who would not hearken to the tongue that told 
Of rumors dark concerning me or mine: 
A friend indeed, and not a summer friend 
Whose smile was mine while sunshine, too, was 

mine; 
But one whose thoughts of tenderness would 

rise 
And deepen and proclaim themselves, when 

time 
Of storm and wreck and midnight came to me. 

I now am old and weak and near my tomb, 
But neither in the glorious capitals, 
Nor yet within the hamlets hidden far 
70 



Britomarte 



71 



From the mad, jarring world in greenwoods 

dim, 
Have I beheld a woman or a man 
Who was possessed of an unchanging tieart. 

I have met those who came to me, and b}^ 
Their gentle smiles and gracious words have 

won 
Their way into the center of my soul, 
And then deserted me and left despair, 
All crowned and sceptered, on the very throne 
Made vacant by their treachery to me. 

Take one as an example of them all: 
I see him yet, a tall and handsome boy, 
With golden locks that glinted in the sun. 
With eyes like violets, whose depths within 
Sparkle the dew-drops at the dawn of day. 
His face was like in color to the bloom 
Of apple-blossoms: just a hint of pink 
Seen through the snowy whiteness —that was 

all. 
He said his love was mine, and then he made 
My love his own, until I worshiped him 
Blindly and madly, and I would have gone 
With songs of gladness through the flood or 

flame 
To serve him, if thereby I could have made 
Him happy as his fond vows made myself. 

Then, wo! there came a time when leagues of 

space 
And lengths of seasons lay between us both ; 
But we had spanned the great gulf with our 

pens. 
And over this frail bridge did we transmit 
Devoted messages. 



72 Britomarte 

But the hour struck 
When there were no responses sent to me. 
A black and awful silence fell between 
Us both; and moons of winter shuddered by, 
And moons of summer blossomed in the blue, 
And still no word — not one poor syllable 
Was heard from him. 

At last I knew it all; 
Knew that he had renounced me ; that no more, 
Here or hereafter, would our pathways cross. 
He flung me back my love, and with it flung 
His scorn and scoffs. 

O, God! O, God! I thought- 
Kneeling prone down within my lampless 

room— 
What have I done that I should thus be hurt — 
Be trod upon like reptile in the dust? 
That, too, by one of all the others best. 
Most dearly loved and reverenced by me! 
There were no tears within mine eyes, ah, no! 
Great grief can never thus be washed away, 
There were no moans within that chambered 

gloom- 
Only the dumbness of a last despair! 
The night passed on, and lightning split the 

> sky; 
The night passed on, and horrid thunders 

clashed; 
The night passed on, and rioted the rain; 
The night passed on and morning broke at last. 
Broke for the world, but never broke for me! 
The cloud, the tempest, and the darkness still, 
Of that fierce night remain within my breast. 

He was the last of all my friends, the last 
Lone love to which I clung, and he had proved 
As faithless as the rest. 



The Song of Hate 73 

Without one cause, 
One reason rendered, he had thus betrayed 
My trust in him. 

And I had loved him so! 
Heaven! O, heaven! I had loved him so! 
I have witlidrawn from all humanity, 
Foresworn my kind and live for self alone. 
Yourself can be a friend unto yourself 
Through loss and pain and utter lack of hope: 
All other friendships are but mockeries. 
Follow them up and you will surely find 
That, like the jack-o'-lantern of the moor. 
They will but lead you to your ruin down. 



THE SONG OF HATE 

Come I at last, my masters! Come I at last, 

though late, 
To sing in your ears, unwilling, the terrible 

Song of Hate — 
A Song that will startle the timid and make 
them tremble and pale; 

But the truth I seek, 
And the truth I speak, 
Though the whole world cower and quail. 

Hate I that World, my masters, with all of its 

show and sham ; 
Its masks and lies and illusions, deceiving us 

but to damn; 
I heartily hate the living and I hate- the very 

dead. 

And everything 



74 The Song of Hate 

By vassal or king 
That ever was done or said. 

For since the first fierce morning of Time, with 

its toils and tears, 
Down through the dim, long vista of fleet and 

fugitive years, 
I see but the one black picture 'twixt cradle 
and coffin-bed, 

Of conquering knaves, 
And cowering slaves. 
And the doom that struck them dead. 

Hate I that World, my masters, so given to 

shame and sin. 
Where mortals by Fate are hobbled and fet- 
tered and hampered in; 
And never I moan nor marvel, when I hear the 
curdling cry 

Of wretches who dare. 
In this hopeless snare, 
To curse their God and die. 

Hate I the name of Pleasure; it is ever akin 

to pain, 
And leaves a poison to rankle in spirit and 

heart and brain; 
Whenever it droppeth a lily adown on my sun- 
less path, 

I shiver with fear, 
For I know that anear 
There hurtles a bolt of wrath. 

Hate I the name of Friendship, of all things 

fickle and frail, 
For, O, in^the time of trial full oft have I 

seen it fail; 
And if it be fond and faithful, then only too 

well I know 



The SoJig of Hate 75 

It will wither and pass, 
Like flowers and grass, 
When the winds of the death-da}- blow. 

Hate I the garish bauble of Fame, that gilded 

cheat! 
It schooleth the glib-tongued rabble in the 

lessons of deceit; 
Down would they bow before me, if I were 
chosen chief, 

Though I won the race 
Through my own disgrace 
To the place of a titled thief. 

Hate I the name of Riches, they bring in their 

blasting train 
A rout of covetous courtiers who fawn at thy 

feet for gain; 
Nothing they care, O, nabob, for thee, it is 
plain to tell; 

Name them in thy will 
For a sum — then spill 
Thy blood. It will please them well. 

Hate I this Life, my masters, so cruel and calm 

and cold; 
Hate I the awful Secret that never to man was 

told! — 
The myster}^ speechless and silent, that wraps 
us around and about, 

That sealeth the tomb 
With a ghastly gloom, 
And shutteth the future out. 

Hate I it All, my masters, but most I hate 

Mankind ; 
They are deaf to the voice of counsel, to their 

plainest duty blind; 



76 Unsung 

1 cry, and they scoff my warning, I call, and 
they only jeer; 

While they laugh and scheme 

In a rosy dream, 
Till Azrael makes them hear. 



UNSUNG 

O, that mystic song ! 
O, that mystic song! 
It is hunting and haunting me down my days 
with its melody sweet and strong! 
The splendor of suns is. in its strain, 
And the tinkle and tune of the wide blue waves, 
And the flash of the rainbows through the 
rain, 
And the glory of life, and the light of graves, 
While songs of heaven and shrieks of hell 
Are one in its surging underswell! 

O, that magic song! 
O, that magic song! 
It blends the vices of mortal right with the virt- 
ues of mortal wrong; 
It sets to music the serpent's hiss 
In time with the singer's lute; it blends 

In rarest rhythm our bale and bliss, 
And curse of foemen and kiss of friends, 
While the feet of the demi-gods keep time 
With the tramp of devils adown its rhyme! 

O, that subtle song! 
O, that subtle song! 



A Frophecy 77 

I strive and struggle to vivify and voice it un- 
to the thoughtless throng; 

But though it burns in my blood to-night, 
And sings and sings in my mind to me, 

Its miracle words I may not write, 
Nor utter its secret sense to thee; 

It slips the leash of my language when 

I seek to pinion it with my pen! 

O, that spirit song! 
O, that spirit song! 
Only to me of our mortal race its melody doth 
belong; 
Yet, O! if I might unlock its bars, 
And O ! if its music I might set free, 

My race would walk on the shining stars 
Forever in company with me, 

And my fame would thunder from zone to 
zone, 

Till Time lay dead on its golden throne! 



A PROPHECY 

" And ever will right come uppermost, 
And ever will justice be done." — Charles Mackay. 

A lie! a lie! a glittering lie! 

Though set to a sounding strain, 
While roystering princes revel high 

And their vassals clank the chain. 

A cheat! a cheat! a glorious cheat! 

While Virtue cries for bread, 
And Vice is battened on banquet meat, 

And quaffs of her wine rose-red! 



78 A Prophecy 

Look forth! look forth over all the lands. 

And what do thine eyes behold? 
Guilt, holding a scepter in gory hands 

And wearing a crown of gold; 

While Innocence toils in the mart and mine 

And taxes its frugal hoard, 
To pay for the purple and linen fine 

And the pleasures of its lord. 

"And ever will right come uppermost. 
And ever will justice be done! " 

A boast! the false and the frivolous boast 
Of a knave and a fool in one. 

Rise high on the rounds unto power and 
place 

By felony, force and fraud, 
And history hides thy dark disgrace, 

While every land will laud. 

Be true to the trust of the dead who die 
For the Truth — it forever fails, 

And its base betrayer will pass thee by 
While thy motive he assails. 

"And ever will right come uppermost. 
And ever will justice be done!" 

A boast! the damned and deluding boast 
Of a knave and a fool in one. 

Who would flatter the meek mob on to 
think 

That a distant day will bring 
To the humblest toiler the meat and drink 

And the fine robe of a king, 

And make them forget their galling gyves, 
And turn to their tasks again, 



Fresefitiment 79 

And work and worry throagh all their lives 
For the profit of princely men. 

But never will right come uppermost, 
And never will justice be done, 

Unless there rises an awful host 
Some day beneath the sun, 

And dooms its kings to the bloody block, 

Their palaces to the flame, 
And breaks every fetter and yoke and lock 

That binds it to its shame; 

And burns in a bonfire every page 
Of the laws that rule to-day — 

That had their root in an ancient age 
When savages held the sway. 

But, mark the prophecy! — mark it well! 

That time we will never know; 
Forever the Strong will buy and sell 

The Weak — it is ordered so; 

And never will right come uppermost, 
And never will justice be done, 

Till we sail away from this mortal coast 
From under this mortal sun! 



PRESENTIMENT 

The night was a night of June 
As I sat at my window-sill 

And sang to the shattered moon 
In tune with the whip-poor-will. 



8o Presentiment 

Then out of the future came 

A mystical feeling. I 
Shrank back with a sense of shame 

And a low, swift, frenzied cry; 

For I knew there was coming soon 

A terror too vast for me, 
And I prayed to the broken moon 

That glittered on sod and sea. 

The morning pearled at last 

In melody, dew and bloom. 
But I shuddered as one aghast 

On the edge of his early tomb. 

It was never a fear of death 

That dirled through my spirit. Nay: 

It was something that came by stealth 
To walk with me day by day; 

And my high and my haughty scorning 
Went down in the dust, and I, 

In the light of that lovely morning, 
Died deaths you can never die. 

For they brought her unto me; then 
With a laugh they left her. O, Christ! 

A thing to be shunned of men — 
For her soul had been sacrificed! 

"My girl! O, my beautiful Grace!" 

I raved in a last despair, 
And I stung her sovereign face 

With my passionful kisses there. 

She lived for a little while. 
And then she was only clay — 

Besmirched by the grime and guile 
Of a devil she met one day; 



Avery Meriwether 8 1 

And out on yon windy wold 
Is her dreamless dust to-night, 

And here I sit, in the gold 

And the gleam of the firelight. 



There cometh unto us all 

A knowledge of things to be, 

And agonies that appall 
Forever I can foresee. 



AVERY MERIWETHER 

Born, July, 1857. Died, July, 1883. 

My Avery is dead, 
In the sunflash of his life — 
Dead in the sunflash of his love; and the world 

with its roses rife! — 
Yea, the world with its mocking roses rife and 

swimming in the wide 
Blue sky — o'er-brimming with song, as if our 
dead had never died. 

My Avery is dead! — 
The dear boy went from me 
With a loving, look on his pure, pale face that 

I never more v/ill see. 
And rivers and rocks and leagues of land be- 
tween us lay waste and wide, 
But I said: "I will, see him again some day," 
and I said it while he died! 



82 Avery Meriwether 

My Avery is dead! 
Low in the Southern dust 
Is the hand that gave with a generous will, and 

the heart forever just, 
And the thoughts that scaled to the Very stars 

— unwritten as yet for man. 
And every beautiful dream, and hope, and de- 
sire, and wish, and plan. 

O, Nature, calm and cold! 
O, Nature, why is this? — 
Why summon us out of the dumb, bare void 

to a little day of bliss — 
To meet with the great, sweet, generous friends 

like the friend whom I weep to-day. 
Then sever us far as star from star in this mad, 
unmerciful way? 

Gifted with genius high, 
Unselfish and pure and brave, 
O, why should he go in his glad rose-years to 

rest where the lilies wave, 
While the guilty whose garments are splashed 

with shame, live on in their slimy sin 
Till their hair is grizzled, before the grave 
will open to let them in? 

But Avery still lives. 
Though clad in cerements chill; 
In the works he wrought, in the truths he 

taught, I know he is living still — 
Is. part of the miracle woods and waves and 

the sky and the stars to-day. 
For the soul thrills out through the universe 
when the senses fade away. 

Is it unconscious there? 
Shall it never know us, when 



Avery Meriwether 83 

We slip the leash of our bondage here, and 
drift from the days of men — 

Drift out through the infinite sweeps of coace 
on the surge of immortal years, 

And melt in the mighty universe through all 
of its suns and spheres? 

Nay, na}^, it cannot be! — 
In ways to the wise unknown, 
We will feel and know, as we felt and knew 

before our breath had flown, 
Though we melt in the mighty universe till the 

endless end shall be. 
And live in the spray of che singing waves and 
the blossom on the tree. 

Why should the tear-drops burn 
Our eyeballs at his tomb? 
Why should we hide our faces there where the 

ferns and the flowers bloom? 
It is only a little, little while till the last of 

us all shall go 
Out over the rim of the radiant sky, and know 
what our dear dead know! 

Only a little while — 
O, why did Avery die? 
This cold philosophy cannot hush our hearts' 

poor, pleading cry; 
O, why must he go in his glory-time with many 

a wreath unwon 
That was growing to garland his pure, proud 
brow with a splendor like the sun? 

O, Life! O, Death! O, Time! 
O, World! O, dark, unknown. 
Mysterious, speechless void on void with peo- 
pled planets sown! — 



84 Avery Meritv ether 

Ye only serve to feed the worm that crawls 

within the tomb, 
And blast forevermore a hope when in its 

brightest bloom! 

O, why should it be so? 
O, what — what have we done 
That we are summoned from the void to live 

beneath the sun — 
To live and cheated be with hopes that turn 

to serpents here; 
To see the bridal-blossoms droop and wither 
on the bier; 

To feel the loving hand 
Turn icy in our own; 
To cry farewells that cannot reach into the dim 

Unicnown; 
To feel the stab of perfidy, the sorrow and the 

pain, 
The yearnings never realized, the rasping of 
the chain; 

To know that life will end — 
End in the murk and mold 
Before the song is half-way sung, the tale is 

half-way told? 
O, pitiless! O, pitiless the God, the Law, the 

Fate, 
The Nature — call it what you list — that ruleth 
our estate! 

O, Avery ! my Avery ! 
The day is half-divine. 
The sod is all a-blooming and the sky is all 

a-shine, 
And the flash and song and fragrance of the 

summer green and gay. 
Mock laughingly at Death and all that Death 
has done this day! 



Cresentius 85 

Insensibly there comes 
A sweet, triumphant thought 
Thar somewhere in the Universe a Truth is left 

untaught — 
A Truth that will unriddle all the mysteries that 

be 
And let thy soul electrify our souls eternally! 



CRESENTIUS 

Behold him as he stands — 
The chains upon his hands 
The noblest and the knightliest one in all the 
Roman lands! 

On his black charger he 
Had led to victory 
Ten thousand thousand Romans through the 
battle's din and dree. 

Then streamed his war-plume white, 
Gleamed in the golden light 
His mail and helmet, bearing deep the dints 
of many a fight. 

Now, cruel rack and wheel. 
His flesh is made to feel, 
But, lo! his true, unmurmuring lips no secret 
will reveal. 

Behold his quivering frame! 
Behold the proud, calm flame 
Within his eagle eye, the while they taunt his 
naked shame. 



86 Cresentius 

And break his battle-sword, 
That for themselves hath poured 
The blood of foemen where the flag of Rome 
imperial soared! 

"Step forth!" The headsman leads, 
And, though each fiber bleeds, 
Cresentius goes with grand, high mien to die 
for noble deeds. 

With bright, unbandaged eye 
Doth he the ax defy, 
While bending to its bloody stroke ... a 
mad, quick tiger-cry 

Leaps from the people there — 
Rage, pathos and despair 
Are blended in the awful wail that breaks up- 
on the air. 

Thus, in a devil-age, 
Was the historic page 
Splashed with the blood of men who threw at 
tyranny the gage. 

Thus did they dree and die 
On block, or cross-tree high, 
Because the hell-whelps on the throne they 
boldly did defy. 

And though the rack and wheel, 
And though the headsman* s steel. 
No man within our boastful land hath yet been 
made to feel. 

Still, if we dare defy 
A mailed and mitered lie 
Of Church or State, its tools will hate and 
hound us till we die. 



NO PLACE FOR ME 

The dancers dance in the palace-halls to the 

mad, sweet music there, 
While I stand outside of the ancient walls in 

a passion of despair; 
Bubbles the red, red Orient wine, and quiver 

^ the creamy blooms, 
While scintillant jewels sparkle and shine 

down all of the princely rooms; 
I hear the persiflage blithe and bright and the 

rippling laughter free. 
But, O! wherever a heart is light, there is no 

place for me. 

I stand on a mountain ledge, and lo! a city 

before me lies — 
I see its western windows glow in the flame of 

the sunset skies; 
And I think of the happy homes where wait 

the tenderful hearts and true — 
Of the welcoming kisses at the gate, in the 

roses and the dew; 
The laughing lips and the eyes impearled by 

sympathy I see. 
And I sigh to myself: In all the world, no 

home has a place for me! 

I tread the turbulent streets and I full many a 

face behold — 
I watch them carelessly pass me by, with 

calm, proud looks and cold. 
They never dream, and they never will, how I 

long their love to know, 
87 



88 No Place for Me 

How their beautiful eyes make my pulses thrill 

as they did in the long ago; 
I pass, and my lips with pride are curled; none 

shall my misery see, 
But I cry to myself: In all the world no heart 

has a place for me! 

I see full many triumphant spheres of dignity 

and renown; 
Here clash the warriors' clanging spears, there 

sparkles the victor's crown; 
Here the poet sings, and the world is hushed 

to listen unto his lays. 

There the statesman stands with his honors 
flushed, in the splendor of his days; 

But whether in sphere or high or low, on the 
shore or on the sea. 

No rich reward will I ever know: There is no 
place for me! 

Be brave, O, heart! There's a place of graves 

afar in a lovely land, 
Where murmur the long, blue Mexic waves up 

Mississippi's strand; 
And there through the silvery summer-tide the 

oleanders bloom. 
And drift their red, sweet flowers wide o'er 

many a nameless tomb; 
And there, when my life is overpast, in the 

beautiful years to be, 
I will find a rapturous rest at last: In the 

grave is a place for me! 



LIONEL LA VERE 

Lionel La Vere was standing by the passionate, 
pale sea, 

Where it broke in magic murmurs on the crag- 
gy coast of Lee, 

While the orient was shining with sun-lances 
light and long 

As the new day flashed upon him with its fra- 
grance, dew and song. 

He, the glorious and gifted, with his poet- 
sense could see 

A new earth and a new heaven on the lovely 
coast of Lee; 

And his soul rhymed with the morning; with 
a rapturous outcry 

Lifted he a glad hosanna to the purple sweep 
of sky — 

Lifted he a glad hosanna foi the life that 
seemed so fair; 

For the sweet, resplendent visions that were 
circled 'round him there; 

For the friends whose deep devotion never 
yet to fail was known; 

For the Hopes that marched before him with a 
splendor all their own — 

Hopes that lifted high their torches, beck'ning 
down the future dim. 

Pointing to the victor-laurels that were blos- 
soming for him; 

For the grand All-hail Hereafter, far beyond 
the stars and sod. 

When his mortal race was over and he rounded 
back to God. 

91 



92 



Lionel La Vere 



Thus, with jubilant thanksgiving did he dream 

of years to be 
On that miracle young morning by the singing 

summer sea. 

* 

Moons have toiled down into darkness since 
that morning kissed his brow — 

In the dust and roar and tumult of a city is 
he now, 

Struggling with his fellow-beings in a battle 
for his bread, 

In despair ofttimes upcrying, "O, to heaven 
I were dead!" 

All the joyful flush and splendor of his youth 
have passed away; 

Golden mornings cannot thrill him as they did 
in that old day, 

And his blood no longer tingles with a riotous 
delight 

When a sylvan scene transplendent blooms in 
beauty on his sight. 

For he sees beyond its beauty, and "It is a 
mask," he cries, 

"To a rotten world that reeketh with its lepro- 
sies and lies!" 

Slowly did he learn the lesson, that the world 
he deemed so fair 

Crucified its Christs forever — placed its Pilates 
in the chair; 

That it cursed the Right forever, and forever 
crowned the Wrong, 

Keeping for the weak its shackles and its scep- 
ters for the strong. 

He had held a creed progressive — pure as star- 
fire of the skies — 



Lumcl La Fere 93 

Held a creed that turned and trampled on all 

leprosies and lies; 
But the rabble rose in anger and assailed him, 

for they saw 
That behind their savage statutes was a whiter, 

holier law, 
And they hated its Apostle, for he tore their 

masks away, 
And revealed their rank pollution to the dazzle 

of the day. 
One by one his friends forsook him — fearful of 

the public wrath — 
Leaving him to fight the foemen crowding clos- 
er in his path. , 
Thus he learned his first sad lesson: Friend- 
ship is an idle tale, 
And thy friends will all assail thee, if the world 

shall first assail. 
One by one his Hopes fell dying; darker still 

the world became. 
Where were now their blazing torches that had 

cheered him with their flame? 
Where were now the victor-laurels they had 

promised long ago? 
Where were now the love and friendship they 

had told him he should know? 
Vanished — like the lovely vision of a dear, dead 

face in sleep 
Rising from beneath the roses, leaving us to 

wake and weep. 

Years march on with shout and laughter, while 
with red, right hands they slay 

Brave and beautiful and brilliant men and wo- 
men by the way; 



94 Lionel La Vere 

Years march on with shout and laughter, beat 

ing down into the grave 
All the rosy dreams and pleasures that their 

predecessors gave. 
Lionel once more is standing on the lonely 

coast of Lee, 
Broken-hearted now and haggard, looking o'er 

a stormy sea; 
And a wan, white mist is crawling over tree 

and tarn afar 
As the dark day moans and shudders to a night 

without a star. 
"I will put my trust in heaven!" thus he cried; 

then, mockingly, 
Laughed the very winds on-sweeping, frowned 

the sky and hissed the sea. 
Until universal Nature to his fancy took a 

tongue. 
Crying, "O, poor fool! you trusted in this world 

when you were young; 
It was brave and great and tender, and it filled 

your grand ideal, 
So you trusted it, and found it hollow, treach- 
erous, unreal. 
"If the Maker made a swindle of this world 

and life and time, 
Will he keep the golden promise in a gladder 

sphere sublime? 
Fool, that you have ever trusted — greater fool 

to trust again 
In a vague, phantasmal country pictured out 

by priestly men. 
Never downward from his bastions rang an an 

swer to a prayer, 
And no God has ever spoken from his glory 

over there, 



Lionel La Vere 95 

.\na no lips have ever opened on which Samael 
set his seal, 

Any hint or any whisper of its raptures to re- 
veal. 

It is all a feeble fiction. Trust in nothing save 
a rest 

That will round through ceaseless cycles in 
the clammy earth's cold breast." 

Lionel La Vere is rotting underneath the white 

rose-tree 
Where he spake his glad hosannas, on the 

craggy coast of Lee. 
Ruined dreams, betrayed affections, faith evan- 
ished, were his lot. 
Yet the sea sings on beside him, and of man 

he is forgot — 
Yet the sea sings on beside him, shines the 

sun and flash the flowers, 
And the wild-birds wing and twitter in the free 

and fragrant bowers. 
And the mad world booms and thunders in its 

passion and its pride, 
And men laugh and dance and marry as if he 

had never died. 
Nature counts the dead as nothing, and she 

frolics o'er his rest. 
While red-throated worms hold riot on the 

heart within his breast — 
Hold the riot and the revel they will hold o'er 

all at last. 
When the dream and disappointment of our 

lives are overpast. 
* 

We may laugh and dance and marry — dally 
with a soft romance — 



g6 Blessijigs of Bachelorhood 

Still the Doom runs through the C3xles; we're 
the sport and fools of Chance. 

And to-day we lift the beaker where the ban- 
quet-board is spread, 

But to-morrow we are wailing by the white 
face of our dead; 

And to-day we hear the trumpet pealing forth 
our names with pride, 

But to-morrow by the people we are speared 
and crucified; 

And to-day our friends caress us, hold us 
closely to the heart, 

But to-morrow they desert us, while they speed 
the poisoned dart. 

This is life — and though its sunrise beautiful 
and blest appears, 

Soon or late it dips and darkens into ashes, 
blood and tears; 

Yet the Church, and State, and People, pander- 
ing to their passions, cry, 

"It is good — a thing of glory! Wed, increase 
and multiply! 

It is good — a thing of glory! Wed, increase and 
multiply!" 



BLESSINGS OF BACHERLORHOOD 

The happiest life that ever was led, 
Is never to woo and never to wed. 

— Old Song. 

HAL 

Say, Cecil, old fellow, unless you take care 
You will be an old bachelor — ^here is a hair 
That I've pulled from your bonny, brown 
tresses, and, lo! — 



Blessings of Bachelorhood 97 

You may look for yourself, — it is whiter than 

snow; 
And, Cecil, a sly little wrinkle I trace 
On your temple — the first of a ravaging race 
That will ruin the roses of boyhood — 

CECIL 

O, tush! 
Quit your bother — Pm busy. 

HAL 

No, no; I won't hush; 
You are thirty, unwedded, and, what is a shame, 
You haven't a single sweetheart to your name , 
And so, on the whole, Bud, your prospect is 

blue, 
And I think it high time I was talking to you. 

CECIL 

Tut! Fiddlesticks, boy! Take a glass of this 

wine — 
I think you will find it uncommonly fine. 
You won't let me finish my writing, I see, 
So light a havana and listen to me: 
Let others go marry for all that I care, 
I never will do such a thing, I declare; 
And thus will I save myself many a woe 
That the poor, hapless Benedict only may know. 
I'm foot-loose, unhampered by woman or child, 
I'm free as yon bird that flits merry and wild: 
I rise in the morning whenever I list, 
I stay out at night and I never am missed, 
I come or I tarry whenever I choose, 
I smoke or I drink when I'm down with the 

blues, 
And there's none to complain or control me, 

my boy, 
As I revel and dance through a lifetime of joy. 
When I come to my snug, little sanctum I 

know 



g8 Blessings of Bachelorhood 

That a fire is blazing with cheeriest glow, 
My pipe and my papers are ready for me, 
And the walnuts and wine when I've finished 

my tea. 
Grand company's waiting for me, I well know — 
Shakespeare, and Byron, and Shelley, and Poe, 
And all the great bards who have brightened 

the earth 
With words of sweet wisdom, and pathos, and 

mii"th; 
With these for my comrades I well can re- 
nounce 
The presence of furbelow, ribbon and flounce. 
While the cry of a tearful and troublesome child 
In the lap of its mother would worry me wild. 

HAL 

But love? 

^ CECIL 

I have fond, faithful friends, as you see, 
And their kindness and care is sufficient for 

me. 
We are bound by no tie save the tie of the 

heart; 
No scandal would sully our names should we 

part; 
If I tire of them or they tire of me 
We can utter adieus and forever are free. 
Not so with a wife. 

HAL 

No; but then the bright joy 

Of a bosom-companion to live with, my boy; 

Who would offer wise counsel, and help you, 
and cheer 

Your upward advances from year unto year; 

Who would crown you her king, with a wo- 
manly pride; 



£iessi?igs of Bachelorhood gg 

"Who would double your joys and your sorrows 
divide." 

CECIL 

The picture is pretty, but very unreal, 
Like a sculptor's white vision, a poet's ideal; 
The helpmate you paint I might possibly find. 
But the Fates might decree a far different kind; 
And what if the woman whose ways I adore 
Should tear off a mask when the marriage is 

o'er, 
And show me a nature, harsh, vulgar and cold, 
A meddlesome spy or a petulant scold? 
Why, Hal, it would drive me distracted, and I 
Would take up my hat, and would bid her 

good-bye; 
Then lawsuit and scandal would fall to my 

share, 
And the shame would be more than my spirit 

could bear. 

HAL 

Is that it, old Cecil? Now, listen to me; 

If your wife should be all that you fear she 
would be, 

You would find compensation, bright, tender 
and sweet 

In your children — without them no life is com- 
plete. 

CECIL 

My children! Now hearken, and heed what I 

say, 
I would rather be dead than a father to-day; 
Aye, rather by far, for temptations are spread 
At each corner and step of the way that we 

tread. 
And my children might bring on my house and 

my name 
The dark, crimson blotch of unspeakable shame. 



lOo Blessi?igs of Bachelorhood 

HAL 

But if they were all you would have them to 
be? 

CECIL 

No matter, — I never of fear would be free. 
Day and night, night and day, I would dread 

that the doom 
Of the grave would sweep over their glorious 

bloom, 
And leave me bereft in the blaze of my years 
With a fierce, hopeless future of terror and 

tears. 

HAL 

Time would heal. 

CECIL 

Never, never! I think you declare 
Your belief in the Bible? 

HAL 

Yes, yes.. 

CECIL 

You have there 
Learned the lesson that only the souls of the 

blest 
Will wing their white way to the raptures of 

rest; 
Yea, only "a remnant" be saved, it is said 
While the multitude, marching on down to the 

dead, 
Will pass through the portals of time and the 

tomb 
To suffer and shriek in dominions of doom 
Forever and ever; and how could I tell 
That no child of my house would sink into this 

hell. 
And leave me the thought that in granting him 

breath 
I had given him likewise damnation and death? 



TJie Secrets of t/ie Song lOT 



O, the red-throated worms must rejoice when 

they hear 
The bridal-bells chiming all cheery and clear, 
And the heart of old Lucifer tingle with pride 
Whenever he looks on a bridegroom and bride; 
For isn't it plain until weddings have ceased 
That the red-throated worms are assured of a 

feast? 
That Lucifer still will have souls to destroy, 
While weddings replenish our planet, my boy? 



THE SECRET OF THE SONG 

Cecil: 

O, sing me a song, Llewell}^, that you sang 
in that lost, lost June, 

When the robins swung in the roses, and car- 
oled and chirped in tune — 

When your life was a life of rapture, and 3'our 
love was a love whose fire 

Had lent to your lays the gladness of a great, 
ripe, sweet desire. 

I know she is dead, Llewellyn, I know she is 
dead to you, 

Or proved like a swikeful siren to your beauti- 
ful truth untrue — 

And you in that mad, vast moment were turned 
to a cynic cold. 

And never again, ah, never! will be as you 
were of old! 



I02 The Secret of the Song 

Llewellyn: 

Ha! ha! my comrade romantic! Now, really I 

• hate to say 
Your charmingly fond compassion is utterly 

thrown away; 
The woman you speak of, Cecil, she never has 

pricked my pride 
By proving unleal to her pledges, and I know 

that she never died — 
Nay, never, my dear old fellow, for she never 

has yet been born 
To harrow my heart by dying or ruffle my 

wrath with scorn. 

Cecil: 

Then why do you sing, Llewellyn, of love and 

of love alone, 
That lieth under the star-light and the dim 

old burial-stone; 
Or false to its first free passion; or answerless 

— unattained; 
Or living in gilded splendor with all of its 

glory stained? 
Why do you sing, Llewellyn, in rhythm and 

rhyme so real 
That people think you are singing a song that 

your soul must feel? 

Llewellyn: 

Because I have seen the passion, because I 
have seen the pain. 

Of bright young lovers a-weeping, and wring- 
ing their hands in vain — 

One for a sweet bride, sleeping low under the 
cypress bough; 

One for the traitor-hearted who trampled upon 
his vow; 



The Secret of the Song 103 

One for a love above him, as stars are above 

the sod; 
One for a pure, proud woman transformed to a 

painted bawd; 
And I cried to myself: O, cruel! yea, cruel is 

love as hell, 
And lost is the poor, weak human subdued by 

its subtle spell, 
For, though it be fast and faithful, its funeral- 
bell will ring, 
And over its cold, white ashes the grasses of 

May will spring — 
Will spring in the golden sun-flash, while the 

bleeding heart will cry 
For pity unto a Ruler who never hath made 

reply. 
The bards in a grand procession have gone 

through this world of ours — 
Gone singing its songs and sky-flash, and the 

pomp of its purple flowers: 
The splendor of great, white mornings, the 

glory of twilight time. 
And the miracle Soul behind it, supernal, su- 
preme, sublime; 
Gone singing the love of lovers — its gladness 

too deep, divine. 
To intercommune its essence by subtlest of 

speech or sign; 
Gone singing its touch mesmeric, its tremors 

that flame and flush 
In kisses and last caresses that blend with the 

bridal-blush : 
And the folliful lads and lasses have listened 

unto the lays. 
And twined the betrothal blossoms in the rose- 
tide of their days, 
Belured by the strain seductive, and led to the 

dark, last doom — 



I04 TJu Secret of the Song 

For the path that leads to the altar leads on to 

the awful tomb — 
The tomb of the little children who are born 

of the bridal vow, 
And the tomb of the wife and husband, so 

happy and hopeful now. 
Though Perfidy sheathe its dagger, and though 

Pride stoops down to kiss, 
Thus vanishes out forever the vision of bridal- 
bliss. 
This is my answer, comrade, my answer to all, 

for I 
Feel pity — a keen, quick pity as a wedding-train 

sweeps by: 
Bright are the sparkling jewels and white are 

the dancing plumes. 
Gay are the bells up-chiming and sweet are 

the golden blooms, 
Merry the rippling laughter and rosy with sweet 

delight 
The dream of a flashing future and the bliss 

of the bridal night; 
But I, from my calm, cold vantage, forethink 

of the future hours 
When the crest of a hooded serpent will lift 

through the orange-flowers — 
When the gulf of the grave will open and the 

funeral-bell will knoll. 
And the radiant dream will vanish with the 

flash of a flying soul. 
Though the passions and tears and moaning 

of Love are in my strain, 
I never have known its pleasures, I never have 

known its pain; 
1 sing from a heart that pulses in pity for all 

my race 
Who kneel in the dust and worship the charm 

of its devil-face; 



Claude 105 

And if from my lyre leapeth a song that will 

save the youth 
In the flush of their manly beauty and the flame 

of their manly truth, 
I will thrill with a glad thanksgiving, and cry 

with a victor cry: 
/ am greater than God — the greatest — up there 

in the sunny sky! 



CLAUDE 

It was night, and the nimbus that circled the 
moon 
Forespoke of the storm that the morrow 
would bring: 
A witch -dog was barking down by the lagoon 
That lay in the forest — a festering thing; 

The wind whuddered loud and the wind whud- 
dered low, 
And puffed the white dust down the high- 
way in whirls, 
And whipped the bare boughs of the trees to 
and fro, 
And whisked up the froth of the bayou in 
skirls; 

When up the old road, trending off to the right 
Of Sherwood, and skirting the Darrell 
domain, 
Came a man with a bundle and stick through 
the night, 
And he walked as though weary with hunger 
and pain. 



io6 Claude 

Claude Darrell, the bonny young lord of the 

Hall, 

Was down at the ivy-hung lodge-gate alone — 

He was straight as an arrow and graceful and 

tall, 

And handsome as any young god on a throne. 

He saw the old man and he cried, "Where- 
away?" 
And the traveler slowed up his steps as he 
said : 
My boy, I have tramped since the dawning 
of day — 
Can't you help an old man to a mouthful 
and bed?" 

"Ta-ta!" said the boy, with a curl of his lip, 
"I don't pension beggars. Ta-ta, sir! Don't 
lag." 
The man with his stick hit the bundle a clip, 
And cried, "I'm no beggar. There's coin in 
that bag." 

"'The case being altered, it alters the case,'" 
Said the youth, with a keen, rasping ring 
in his tones; 
"Come in! I have food, and old wine, and a 
place 
Where to-night you can sleep off the ache 
in your bones. " 

So the old man went in and the youth served 
him well. 
And after their supper they smoked for a- 
while, 
Till the hour of ten rang its rusty, old bell, 
And the host showed his guest unto bed 
with a smile. 



Claude 107 

There was none in the house save the boy and 
the man, 
And a scowling old servitor, deaf as the 
dead. 

* * * 

It was said that the youth was the last of his 
clan. 
And out of his fingers his fortune had fled. 

A rake and a reveler ere he was twenty, 

His riches had rapidly taken their flight; 
His houses and lands were all mortgaged. A 
cent he 
Had not when he met with the graybeard 
that night. 

The clock clanged the hour of one from the 
wall: 
Claude Darrell rose up from his seat by the 
fire, 
And, taking a candle, he crept through the 
hall. 
And up the old stairs he climbed higher and 
higher 

To the room where he knew the old man was 
reposing. 

With a knife in his hand and with hell in his 
heart, 
He turned back the door-knob. The old man 
was dozing, 
But straightway awoke with a shudder and 
start, 

"Claude Darrell!" he shrieked, as he sprang 
from the bed 



io8 Claude 

And seized the young man with a furious 

hold, 
"A half-minute more, and I would have been 

dead, 
For you thought through my gore you would ' 

capture my gold. 

"I dreamed you were coming. The dream has 
come true — 
For a few paltry dollars your soul you would 
damn! 
O! what have I done that this punishment's 
due? 
Claude Darrell! O, Claude! you don't know 
who I am ; 

"For you were a baby when long, long ago 
I sailed o'er the seas in my bonny young 
years : 
There came a great tempest, and far on a low 
Rock, our vessel was wrecked off the coast 
of Algiers. 

"We were captured, and there in a slave-market 
sold; 
Year crawled after year, and I found myself 
free; 
But I heard that low under the myrtle and 
mold 
My wife and my baby slept here by the sea. 

"So I never came back until now. In the mart 

Of the tropics I piled up great treasures of 

gold; 

For merrily Fortune will smile when the heart 

On the world and its trappings no longer has 

hold. 



Claude 109 

Then I heard that my boy was still living, 
and, O! 
It swept me to heaven! Nc raint in the sky 
Feels a bliss like the blisses that surged to 
and fro 
In my heart as I said to mv^elf: 'By and 
by 

" 'I will meet with my baby— my beautiful 
one, 
With his mother's blue eyei, and her ringlets 
of gold — 
O, I wish — fcr my dream is forever undone — 
That I lay with her under the myrtle and 
mold! 

I said to myself as I sailed o'er the sea: 
'I will go in the garb of a tramp to the Hall, 
For I know that a mouthful and bed there will 
be, 
As there was in the past, for whoever may 
call; 

'And when I have rested the crick in my back. 

And tested my son with a fatherl}^ pride, 
And cheered myself up with a bit of a snack, 
As he tells to my face how his old father 
died, 

"I will quit my disguising, and taking my boy 
To my heart, I will tell him that he is my son. 

And, 01 how I pictured his passionate joy 
When he found that myself and his father 
were one! 

What — what have I done that my sweet 
dream should lie 
In its blood at my feet? Is it just — is it just 



no Claude 

That a Tri-headed Tyrant should sit in the sky 
To mock and bedevil us worms of the dust? 

"Claude Darrell, I came to the Hall, but you 
know 
The rest of the pitiful story, my son — 
The rest of the pitiful story, for O! 

My beautiful babe and Claude Darrell are 
one!" 

As if stricken to stone — voiceless, pallid and 
cold, 
With a horror that darkened within his deep 
eyes, 
The youth had stood still till the story was 
told. 
Then he tore himself loose with loud, maniac 
cries; 

He sprang through the door, down the stair- 
way he fled, 

And out of the manor, and under the moon, 
On — on, as though driven by devils he sped 

Till he came to the edge of the awful lagoon. 

His father had followed him into the night, 
But never a trace of him there could he 
see; 
He called, "O, come back to me, Claude, and 
in spite 
Of the past thy old father will idolize thee!" 

But never an answer came back to his ears 
As he ran up and down through the Darrell 
domain, 
And sought for his son, while the blistering 
tears 
Blurred his loving old eyes, but the search 
was in vain — 



Claude III 

But the search was in vain till the desolate 
morn 
In its dark thunder-garments walked over 
the world, 
And wailed for the radiant things that are born, 
And then to the red-throated reptiles are 
hurled. 

Then the father saw foot-prints. He followed 

them fast 

Through the pleasaunce and meadows and 

forest-lands bare — 

He followed them far till they vanished at last 

By the lonely lagoon. With a cry of despair 

And a clutch at his throat he sank down on the 
sod, 
For under the water he saw a white face, 
And he cried, "O, my Claude! O, my beautiful 
Claude! 
And thus dies the last of my long, princely 
race! 

"O, had I but known in the folly of youth 
What I know in the wrinkle and gray of my 
life- 
Had I caught but one gleam of the glorious 
truth 
With which the whole universe ever is rife, 

"Ah, 1 would have thwarted the Fates and 
their fell. 
Blasting fury, for Claude would have never 
been born, 
Nor would I be feeling the fires of hell 

As I look on his dead face this desolate 
morn! 



112 Claude 

"The King Curse of Curses that walk through 
the world, 
Is Wedlock! O, would that its rings and its 
flowers, 
Its vows and its altars forever were hurled 
Into darkness eterne from this planet of 
ours ! ' 



POEMS OF PASSING MOODS 



PANTHEISM 

I sing not of this changeful clime — chaos of 

sunlight and of snows — 
But of the deathless summer-time in land of 

lily and of rose, 

Where, boating in the breathless calms upon 

the lotus-purpled Nile, 
We drift between the regal palms and pyramids 

for many a mile. 

Here, where the viper rears its brood within the 
noxious weeds and flowers, 

A pillared city proudly stood with golden min- 
arets and towers. 

Behold this lone, deserted place, where serpents 

thrid the tropic-grass. 
Here, in its stateliness and grace, a kiosk stood 

of stone and brass; 

But now the night-bat and the owl hide in its 

poison-reeking vines, 
And jackals and hyenas prowl by its pale, 

mandrake hidden shrines. 

These lightning-cloven marble walls, with sculp- 
tured images ornate, 

Mark the imperial palace-walls where grand, 
gray-bearded kings held state. 

Here were their soft and shaven lawns where 
fire-hearted tulips blazed; 

Within these greenwood shaws the fawns up- 
on the fat grape-clusters grazed. 
IIS 



ii6 Pantheism 

Here swans superbly floated by the barge 

moored to this marble stair, 
Here shot a shining fountain high and foaming 

in the amber air. 

Here, through these dim, wraith-haunted rooms 
swept many a noble courtier-train, 

With velvets, diadems and plumes, the brave, 
the lovely and the vain. 

And now we pass into the gloom of fragrant 

forests, and we see 
The bright magnolia in bloom, the verdure of 

the banyan tree, 

The lemon, green and golden-fruited, the cac- 
tus, with its crimson flowers. 

The pied pinks, in the red-stone rooted, the 
hot, snake-haunted bamboo bowers, 

The ring-dove rising while it sings, on whir- 
ring wings, till lost in light. 

The rock-goat bleating while it springs from 
breezy height to breezy height. 

And as we dreamily ride by between the ruins 

and the woods, 
I think of blast and battle-cry that brake these 

baleful solitudes; 

Of victories, forgotten now, defeats of which 

no wrecks remain. 
Of laurel leaves on warriors' brows, of conquered 

leaders lying slain; 

Of loves and hates, of joys and pains, of wel- 
comes and of fare-ye-wells, 

Of sacrifices and of gains, of marriage-feasts 
and funeral bells. 



Pa7itheisj7i 117 

I sadly sigh: Thus runs the doom — puissant 

kingdoms rise to fall — 
The awful shadow of the tomb spreads wan 

and ghastly over all. 

Then spake thee, O! thou friend of mine: All 
things of time shall be undone 

Save Faith that makes our race divine and 
Eden-life and Earth-life one. 

Since it hath lit its lamp upon the sacred shrine 
within my breast, 

I feel that from my heart hath gone its phan- 
tom gloom, its vague unrest; 

It seems that suns flood through the fierce and 
storm-jarred midnights wild with wrath, 

That violets and daisies pierce the snows that 
drift upon my path. 

When looking through the unclosed doors of 

charnel-vaults, I see afar 
The sunny seas and shining shores beyond the 

coffin-worm and star; 

When treading a deserted street where long- 
dead men and women trod, 

I follow their white, spirit feet unto the very 
goal of God, 

Where never thunder-bolt, and night, and 

pestilence, and battle-roar. 
And wreck, and poverty, and blight, and age 

can harm then any more. 

What matters it if we must lie at rest beneath 
the sea or sod? 

Our spirits — though our bodies die — are round- 
ing grandly back to God. 



ii8 Flint he tsni 

Wherein the white cathedral walls, where 
censer swings and cresset burns, 

Where wave the purple funeral-palls gold- 
sprinkled o'er the gorgeous urns, 

I hear the Mass, I am oppressed by the tear- 
broken, somber tones. 

When Fassus et sepultiis est through the great, 
quivering organ groans; 

But suddenly— the sorrow past — joyfully up 

my spirit springs. 
When, like a silvery clarion-blast, clearly 

Et resiirrexit rings! 

Thus, in that land of wreck and wraith, I 

spake of vanity and loss — 
When thou put forth thy purer faith I saw the 

crown above the cross! 

I saw it — but I see to-day the sophistry behind 

it all; 
From out the heavens, when we pray, there 

comes no answer to our call. 

The very stones beneath our feet, the very stars 

within the sky. 
Deny the Bible, and defeat its prophecies of 

By and by. 

O, Soul, that has a hope of grace, and sees a 

glory-land afar. 
That, with a rapt and radiant face, unfurls its 

white wings to a star! 

O, Heart, so confident, serene and beautiful! 

I wish that I 
Could see the palaces unseen that shine for 

thee beyond the sky; 



Hope 1 1 9 

But though it may not be, and though I feel 

thou art by Faith misled, 
This one, vast, vital Truth I know, Man cannot 

die — there is no dead. 

Thee — not thy blood and flesh and bone — but 
Thee — thy mind that makes the Thee — 

Shall still unto Itself be known until the end- 
less end shall be; 

Shall revel in the dew, and ray, and bloom of 

every sun and sphere, 
And pulse in every passing lay, melodious, that 

man shall hear; 

Existence know in all that was, and is, and 
evermore will be. 

And master immemorial laws, that now are in- 
finite to Thee; 

For man is God and God is man, whatever 
changes may befall: 

To-day concentered in a span, to-morrow com- 
prehending all. 



HOPE 

Comes she through the crimson mists of the 

morning strangely sweet, 
There are flowers on her forehead, there are 

flowers at her feet; 
Hers a tranced look and tender, hers a rapt 

and radiant face, 
And a perfect, pulsing poem is her grandly 

simple grace. 



120 Hope 

Now the sun-burst spills its splendor from the 
chalices of air, 

And it shines upon her features and it sparkles 
in her hair, 

And it flickers and it flashes on her white, up- 
lifted wings, 

As she presses through the roses, while she 
rapturously sings, 

While she strikes her sounding lyre with a 
siren touch and sings: 

If thou wilt follow me — 
Follow me where 

Shineth my palace-walls 
White in the air, 

All of thy dreams shall be 
Realized there. 

If thou hast eagerly 
Coveted fame. 

Laurels and lilies 
Shall circle thy name; 

Trumpets and tongues shall 
Thine honors proclaim! 

Youth, with the martial blood 
Hot in thy breast, 

Warrior plumes shall wave 
Bright on thy crest. 

And thy brave blade shall be 
Victory-blessed ! 

Youth, with the thoughtful brow. 
Born to command, 

Badges and stars shalt thou 
Have at my hand, 

First in the councils and 
Courts of thy landl 



Hope 121 

Youth, with the piercing eye, 
Seeking the keys 

Unto the door of God's 
Dark mysteries, 

Come, thou shalt baffle his 
Deathless decrees! 

Youth, with the dreamy look, 
Strong and sublime 

Shall thy great tho'ts and grand 
March down in rhyme 
Unto the uttermost 
Verges of time! 

Youth, with the grasping hand, 
Thou shalt have gold 

And it shall buy for thee 
Pleasures untold 
Until thine eyelids 
Forever shall fold! 

Youth, with the loving soul, 
On thy true breast 

One heart shall seek there 
Its raptures and rest. 
Faithfully blessing and 
Faithfully blest. 

If thou wilt follow me — 
Follow me where 

Shineth my palace-walls 
White in the air, 

All of thy dreams shall be 
Realized there. 

Thus, with grand, gray eyes uplifted and with 

glory on her wings. 
Presses she through purple roses, while she 

rapturously sings; 



122 Hope 

And we follow — on we follow, in a bright un- 
broken train, 

And with clear, uplifted voices join her brave, 
triumphant strain. 

We are standing in the shadows of a twilight 
wild and wan, 

In a lonely land that never knew the dazzle of 
a dawn — 

In a land of ghostly ruins and of ghastly wrecks 
that lie 

Where a sullen river roareth underneath a sul- 
len sky. 

Where is now the singing siren who hath led 
and lured us here 

From the rest and from the rapture of content- 
ment' s charmed sphere? 

Over rocks and over rivers, through the pas- 
sion and the pain, 

Long we followed in her foot-prints, but we 
followed her in vain. 

By the wayside, spent and pallid, one by one 
our comrades fell. 

And we kissed their snowy foreheads while we 
wept a fond farewell, 

Leaving them to sleep the slumber of the 
nameless and unknown, 

In the immemorial shadow of the awful burial- 
stone. 

Still we followed her — and followed, till she 
vanished from our sight. 

Leaving us in desolation, on the dim edge of 
the night. 

Where are now her songs and garlands and 
the gladness of her eyes? 

Where are now the shining castles that we saw 
within the skies? 



Hope 123 

Where are now the wreaths of glory, or the 

leal love, or the gold, 
And the triumph of possession, and the thrills 

of which she told? 
Vanished, like the flame and flowers of that 

magic morning-time 
When she led and lured us hither with her 

prophecies sublime. 
We are old and wan and wrinkled, grizzled is 

our golden hair. 
In our eyes there is the hunger and the dumb 

look of despair. 
And around us and about us gather in eternal 

glooms, 
And before us and behind us is a wilderness 

of tombs. 



Hearken! through the storms and shadows 
one strong soul of souls sublime, 

Speaketh: "Cheer ye up, my comrade, in the 
battle-march of time. 

Self should be as less than nothing, for it 
perisheth as grass. 

But the truths for which we labor from the 
world will never pass! 

They will burst the chains of bondage — help 
the races to uprise. 

And with Freedom's holy chrism will human- 
ity baptize! 

Mourn not, comrade, for the selfish losses that 
thy life hath known. 

Weep not for the gauds and baubles thou hadst 
hoped to call thine own; 

Thine hath been a bright evangel — thou hast 
held a torch in air 



1 24 Hope 

Lighting on the struggling races from the 

reahns of dumb despair; 
Though thy very name shall perish when thy 

life is overpast, 
Yet thy words and works forever through the 

centuries shall last. 
Ever}^ good thought ever spoken, every grand 

deed ever done, 
Is a fresh sword, making surer that our con- 
quests will be won — 
Conquest over Superstition, that hath ruled 

and ruined long. 
Conquest of the captive peoples over mailed 

and mitered Wrong 
In its palaces of splendor and its forts and 

bulwarks strong!" 

"Glorious and gifted brother!" thus I sadly 

spake to him, 
"Thine a spirit is that soareth o'er the narrow 

reach and rim 
Of poor selfhood, and perceiveth what man's 

better aim should be, 
But beyond these clouds and charnels my 

blind spirit cannot see. 
I have borne so many crosses, worn so many 

chains, have passed 
On from failure unto failure from the first unto 

the last; 
I have known, my more than brother, O, so 

many burning wrongs! 
Hate hath scourged me and hath scarred me 

with her scorpion whips and thongs. 
By the men whom I befriended I have basely 

been belied. 
By the land that I defended I have basely been 

denied. 



Hope 125 

Till my spirit, backward driven from the things 

it thought divine, 
Cannot see in all the future a foreshadow or a 

sign 
Of that white millennial morning when Human- 
ity shall be 
God-like in the grand ideal thou hast pictured 

unto me. 
Man will tear his fellow-mortal, suck the blood 

from out his heart — 
For the old, old tiger-spirit of his very self is 

part — 
He will trample on the helpless, spring the 

lock and forge the thrall 
Till the final cataclysm our proud planet shall 

befall," 

"Nay, my comrade, man is better than he was 

in cycles past — 
He will grow in grace and knowledge and in 

freedom to the last; 
He will find the mystic Sangreal, tho' so long 

hath been his quest; 
He will reach the heights resplendent — cast 

the beast from out his breast 
And stand forth, in time, transfigured, beauti- 
ful, and bright, and bless'd! 
Then, my comrade! O, my comrade, to our 

struggles and our strife 
'Mid the thorns and burning plough-shares of 

our semi-savage life, 
All his great and godlike freedom will he owe 

— as we to-day 
Owe our semi-liberation from the Popes' and 

Princes' sway 
To the Heretics and Rebels who revolted long 

ago 



126 A Diamond Day 

From oppression it hath never been our better 
lot to know!" 

"Brother! O, my more than brother!" and I 

search his shining eyes, 
Seeing all the look prophetic, luminant, that 

in them lies, 
"With thine own pure inspiration I can see the 

golden goal 
And can hear the songs victorious downward 

from the future roll. 
For I know, O, more than brother! while upon 

our planet shine 
Firm and dauntless, true and loving, and un- 
selfish souls like thine. 
They will light the races upward unto regions 

yet untrod, 
Till on every human forehead shines the glory 

of a God!" 



A DIAMOND DAY 

It was a diamond day of my life — 

A day I will dream of through years to be; 

It lifted me out of all storms and strife. 
For, Rowan, I was with thee. 

I had rounded the world with its revels and 
spells 

Of every passion known unto man; 
I had seen its heavens and felt its hells — 

For thus my destiny ran. 



A Diamond Day 127 

And love its glory and life its graces 

Had lost their power to cheer and charm, 

And I envied the dead in their dwelling-places 
Afar from all hope or harm. 

Then into my life and my love there came 
Thy presence, Rowan, and love and life 

Were vivified with the vital flame, 
Immortal o'er storms and strife. 

It sweetened and strengthened myself to feel 
The tenderful touch of thy thrillant palm; 

It broadened and brightened my soul — thy 
leal 
Look — conquering and yet calm. 

The garlands of glory are budding now 
That soon will blossom in bliss for thee 

And a nimbus make for thy noble brow 
That the whole wide world will see. 

Yes, thy victory yet will come, my own, 
With a blast of trumpets and roll of drums. 

And a blaze of banners by winds outblown, 
And the cry: "He comes! He comes!" 

And after thy triumphs and trials here. 

And the bays and blossoms that they will 
bring, 
To a happier state and a higher sphere 

May thy sovereign spirit wing. 

May the golden lilies of God, my own, 
Forever blossom around thy way 

Afar in the fair and the fragrant zone — 
The zone of the Deathless Day. 



FOUND 

Our ship lay stilled within the calms 
Of seas confineless. Far away 
In the red southern distance lay 

An isle with palaces and palms. 

Our wine and bread were well-near spent, 
And white and hungry sailors went 

In knots apart. With bated breath 

They muttered things I could not hear, 
But still my heart was clutched with fear 

Of nameless horrors and rude death. 

And days went by and we were cursed 
And crazed by hunger and by thirst, 
And then it was I knew the worst. 

A mariner with whetted knife 

Sprang up, and shrieked: "Draw lots for 
life! 

Because one man of us must die 

That of his blood the rest may quaff. 

That of his flesh the rest may eat — 

human flesh and blood are sweet, 
The daintiest of draughts and meat!" 
A maniac light was in his eye; 

A maniac tone was in his laugh; 
And then I heard the sailors say, 
"Yes! one of us must die this day!" 

They took the dice-box and they played, 
To see whose neck should feel the blade. 

1 shook it last, and, lo! the cry 
Rang from all throats that I must die! 
"Give me one hour, just one! " I plead, 

"That I may pra}^" They made consent: 
Prone to the hot, black deck I bent, 
128 



Found 129 

And asked ihat I might meet my dead, 
Might meet my bride who sailed away 
One sweet, briglit morning in the May, 
Who threw last kisses with her hand 
To me upon the spumy sand, 
Until the tall barque round the peaks 
Of Cornwall disappeared, and I 
Went with a sob that was a sigh, 
With tears upon my boyish cheeks. 
To wait for her return. But, no. 
She never did return to me, 
For tidings came from a far sea 
That struck my heart as with a blow, 
For the tall barque had sunken low 
Upon the hidden rocks. No more 
Would it sail homeward unto shore. 
And as I prayed a cloud rose high 
And blotted out the burning sky, 

And lightnings flashed from sky to sea 
As if the glory had got free 
From out of heaven. Thunders rolled 
With clash and boom, while uncontrolled 
The winds sprang up and swept us on 
Unto the isle. W^e struck a rock — 
My senses left me with the shock, 
And when I woke my strength was gone. 
I staggered to my feet and, lo! 
I saw a land of light and bloom^ 
A land of sunshine and perfume. 
And all that nature can bestow — 
With pleasant valleys, green and deep, 
That mounted upward to the steep 

Of chalky cliffs, where curled the mist 
Of morning by the sunshine kissed 
To beryl, pearl and amethyst, 
And all bold brilliance. Here and there 
The palm tree tossed in amber air, 



1 30 Found 

Up-springing in the gloom of green 
Tall, shining sheaves of flowers were 
seen — 
The reddest red, the bluest blue. 
The whitest white — all dashed with dew, 
All swaying on the supple stems 
Of which they were the diadems; 
And flaming birds that looked like flowers 
To which their God had given wing, 
That they might up and upward spring 
Unto a whiter world than ours. 
I walked the beach. The foamy waves 
Were chiming at my feet a tune 
That sounded like the subtle rune 
Of some lost paradisic staves — 
When suddenly before my sight 
, Stood up a city, vast and white, 
With strange, majestic temple walls, 
Deserted streets and voiceless halls. 

With dumb, proud idols, ruined shrines, 
Urns stained with sacrificial wines, 
With stones for sacrificial rites. 
And columns twined with parasites — 
All blotched with bloody-calyxed 

blooms — 
That led to still and solemn tombs. 
Where funeral flags and fallen lamps 
Were streaked with somber dust and 
damps, 
And here and there in niches stood 
Brown mummies in the solitude,' 
Staring at me through sightless eyes 
With looks of hideous surprise. 

And passing through the palace-door, 
Where kings had ruled in days of yore, 
I wandered — spent and sore of heart, 
And sat me on the faded throne, 



Found 131 

And wrung my hands, and made my moan. 

When suddenly I heard the tone 
And tinkle of a lute, the strands 
Seemed quivering with quivering hands; 

And then a sad voice sang, and I 

Pressed down my heart, and thought to 
die — - 
For that same voice had sung to me 
On a far shore beyond the sea — 
Had sung to me, in mornings new, 

In the June seasons when we walked 

Through English meadow-lands, or 
talked 
Where bloomed the cowslips dank wit) 

dew — 
My bride — so tender and so true! 

I sighed, "O, I am but asleep! 

I dream! I shall awake to weep! 
I dream!" — I said no more. For, lo! 

I saw a vision in the gloom 

And grandeur of that ancient room — 
I saw a vision of my bride! 
"O, blessed God!" I gladly cried, 

"Her spirit I at least may see! 

At least her spirit comes to me! " 
And standing motionless I gazed 

And gazed upon her matchless grace. 
While like a radiant angel, dazed, 

Her soul-light flickered on my face. 
Spell-bound, she looked within my eyes. 
Then, with a sudden storm of cries, 

She fell upon my breast, and said, 

"Thou art not dead! thou art not dead! " 
And thus the lost was foimd and thus 

From uttermost of continents, 

We were led back to love intense 
By ways that were unknown to us — 



132 IV^ Tiuo 

By ways wc never would have trod 
Save through the guidance of a god. 
Then, O, what joyous days we passed 
Within that isle! How we went 
Through bowers, swooning with their 
scent, 
By blue waves where" green woods were 
glassed ! 
And talked of love until the stars 
White-lidded hung within the blue, 
And like a lyre through and through 

The night were heard the bulbul bars 
Of melody. While in the gloom 
Burned like a torch the cactus bloom, 
And all the land was lulled and dim 
From purple rim to purple rim. 



• WE TWO 

No eyes like thine eyes can charm me, no 

voice like thy voice can cheer. 
No clasp like thy clasp can thrill me, no dear 

one is half so dear; 
Aye, dearer thou art, far dearer, than glory 

and place and gold. 
And nearer thou art, far nearer, than ever on 

earth was told. 

I may lose my faith forever in the heaven of 

which we hear, 
I may learn to think it was nearest when thou, 

O, beloved! wert near; 
I may lose my faith in the seraphs who sing 

by the jasper sea. 



Myra 133 

But, tenderest friend man ever had! I'll never 
lose faith in thee I 

I know not, mj^ brother, I know not, if we 

ever will meet again; 
Dark and wild and uncertain are the devious 

paths of men. 
And far, O, far are we severed by mountain and 

wold and waves, 
And this is a land of partings and funeral-bells 

and graves. 

But whether we meet, or whether we meet in 
this world no more, 

I'll love thee still as I loved thee in the pas- 
sionate years of yore; 

The red blood will dance and tingle with pleas- 
ure throughout my frame. 

And my heart will break into blossom when- 
ever I hear thy name. 



MYRA 

O that August night! 

O that August night! 
The moon in the opal mid-air hung like a 
wonderful blossom white! 
As I dipped my oars in the diamond spray, 
And our boat, like a sea-bird, flew away. 
The beautiful Myra was with me there, 
And the splendor of summer was in her hair; 
The lilies of summer were in her face, 
The soul of the summer was in her grace; 
The song of the summer was in her tone, 



134 Myra 

The passion of summer was in her zone, 
The glory that gladdens the summer skies 
Was shining and soft in her blue, blue eyes. 

O that magic night! 
O that magic night! 
The bridal of every beautiful dream and 

blessed that can delight! 
The silver turrets and shining towers. 
The hanging gardens of golden flowers, 
The almond trees with their argent bloonis, 
By hoary temples and fanes and tombs, 
The spicy scents from the shores outblown, 
That tingled and thrilled through our blood 

and bone, 
And the songs of the bulbuls sung in time 
With the wooing winds and the waves 

a-rhyme, , 
While over and under and through was blent 
The mystical light of the firmament! 

O, that passion night I 

O, that passion night! 

The palace-windows that fronted the waves 

with torches were all alight; 
And we heard the waltzers a-waltzing there, 
And their laughter peals on the pulsing air. 
While down through the glittering rooms 

there went 
The songs of the minnesingers, blent 
With harps and bugles in strains divine 
That fired our blood like the flame of wine! 
And the stars were tangled within the spray 
That dripped from my dipping oars away; 
And my heart was tangled within the hair 
Of the beautiful Myra before me there! 



Myra 135 

O, betrothal night! 
O, betrothal night! 
When God threw open his gates to us and led 
us into a land of light I 
A land of love that was all our own, 
And I was the king on a shining throne, 
And Myra was queen, with an equal share 
In all of the beauty that blossomed there- 
in all of the halcyon hopes and sweet 
That threw their garlands before my feet— - 
In all of the jubilant joys that came 
With festal trumpets and flags a-flame — 
In all of my very self a part — 
Spirit of spirit, and heart of heart! 

O, God's own night! 

O, God's own night! 
That wafted Paradise down to us with all of 
its passionate delight! 
The beautiful seasons have flowered and fled. 
And sifted their snows on her shining head, 
Since I told my love in our little boat, 
While under the flower-white moon afloat; 
But Myra is dearer by far to-night. 
As she circles me close in her warm arms 

white, 
Than even in passionate years long flown 
When first I ungirdled her virgin zone; 
And a tenderer beauty mine eyes can trace 
Than they saw in her glorious girlhood grace; 
And thus will our beautiful love increase 
Till the infinite years of our souls shall cease. 



A FRAGMENT 

You may slobber of lovely girls, 

That thrill your heart with joy, 
Of their beautiful eyes and their golden curls, 

And their manners soft and coy; 
But of all the lassies on sea or land. 
The one most charming and bright and grand 

Is the girl most like a boy. 



THIRTY YEARS 

O, the sun-dazzle that summer nooning — 

That summer nooning beside the sea! 
The woods, a-tremble, were all a-crooning 

With trill of thrushes and boom of bee; 
Danced the boats on the dancing billows 

Up and down in the crystal day, 
Swung the birds in the swinging willows 

All a-sparkle with salt}' spray. 
Over the vine-prankt mountain verges 

Tripped and tinkled a streamlet free, 
Lost at last in the shaggy surges 

Out in the sand-dunes by the sea. 
Over and over the free, fresh heather 

The beautiful butterflies waltzed away. 
While Lily and I walked on together, 

Singing a rare, sweet roundelay; 
Talking at times of the times thereafter, 

Merril}^, O, so merril}' we! 
136 



Thi?'ty Years 137 

Breaking out into peals of laughter — 

Laughter a-chime with the chiming sea. 
On we walked through the warm, sweet 
weather — 

Forest and foam were all a-tune; 
On we went through the glad, green heather 

And dreamed of the raptures a-coming soon— 
A-coming soon with the bridal-kisses, 

Bridal-roses and bridal-ring, 
And all the blessings and all the blisses 

That love — that passionate love could bring. 

;;; ^ jjC 5|C ^ 

"Farewell, Lily, I must be leaving, 

My ship is ready" — we parted there — 
"I will return when the June is weaving 

Bridal-blossoms to wreathe th}^ hair." 
Then I kissed her and I caressed her — 

Eyes a-shine with our unshed tears — 
Then once more to my heart I pressed her, 

And we parted for — thirty years! 
Yes; for my goodly ship went grinding 

Into the rocks one wrathful night — 
Sheer through the surges black and blinding 

Sank the vessel and crew from sight; 
I alone through the awful billows, 

Scarred and senseless was landward borne. 
Waking, under the wet, lone willows 

Of a lost isle, with the morn. 

***** 
Come the summers with wreaths of roses. 

Come the winters with wreaths of snow — 
Never a sail to my sight discloses 

Out on the rim of the sky-line low. 
Thirty Junes with their thrills of passion. 

Thirty Junes with their throbs of pain, 
Thirty Junes in the old, old fashion. 



138 Thirty Years 

Live and perish and live again! 
Came a ship to my lonely island — 

Came a ship by the storm in-pressed — 
Back they bore me again to myland 

Under the under-skies a- West. 

Up through the fisher-town I wander — 

Never a passing face I know; 
Many, ah! many are camping yonder 

Under the sod of the kirkyard low. 
Others have left for the alien-places, ■ 

And, O! the lassies and lads of yore 
Have lost the traces of youthful graces 

That lit their faces in years before. 
Out of the town to the lands outlying 

Over the blossomy gorse I go — 
Flitter-birds through the air a-flying 

Sing as they flutter to and fro. 
Who is that by the sand-dunes walking, 

Back and forth by the dunes of sand. 
Watching the bright, brisk boats a-rocking 

Over the billows unto the land? 
Poor, old woman ! I hear her praying, 

Here — out here by the singing sea — 
Heaven, O, heaven! What is she saying? — 

"Harold! my Harold, come back to me! 
Thirty years I have watched and waited — 

My heart is sick and my heart is sore — 
Where and, O! where art thou belated? 

Darling! my darling, come back once more ! 
God! O God, it is Lily! 

Lily, 
I am thy Harold come back to thee." 

Cruel her eyes and her accents chilly 
As slowly she turns her face to me: 

"Thou my Harold? Ha-ha!" Her laughter 



A Summer Picture 139 

Breaks in a passionate flood of tears: 
"Mock and madden me not thus after 

Waiting and watching for thirty years. " 
"Lil}', O, Lily! I am thy lover — 

Why wilt thou mock and madden me? 
See — thy locket. See — I uncover 

Thy picture." 

"Nay, it can never be; 
Straight is Harold as any arrow, 

Strong is he with the strength of youth" — 
Cut her tones to my very marrow; 

Slowly — slowly I saw the truth. 
"Handsome is he with hair as golden 

As yon sun-dazzle upon the bars, 
With roses red on his cheeks unfolden 

And eyes that shine like the summer stars. 
Thou my Harold — Ha-ha!" Her laughter 

Breaks in a passionate flood of tears. 
Thus, O, thus do I meet her, after 

Waiting and watching for thirty years! 



A SUMMER PICTURE 

The radiant summer-tide ringed our sweet star 
With a girdle of glorified flowers. 

And winds from the wonderlands fragrant and 
far 
Lent a tune to the tread of the hours. 

The linnets sang loud and the linnets sang low 
In the blossoming tops of the trees. 

And the crimson-cupped tulips were bent to 
and fro 
B}' the madcap and merriful bees. 



140 A Su7n?Her Picture 

The heather was green on the low granite hills, 

And a silver}^ vapor was curled 
Round the purple peaks, tinkling with turbu- 
lent rills 

On the uttermost edge of the world. 

On the sands the white walls of a fisher-town 
shone, 

And the cross on its crazy old spire, 
With ivy in infinite tangles o'ergrown, 

Was tipped at the topmost with fire. 

The red-tiled farmsteads, moss-mantled and old. 
Rose out of their garden-plots gay, 

And harvest-fields flashed in their glor}' of gold 
Through all of the diamond day. 

A happy young lover rode dreamily by 

Through the depths of that tranceful retreat, 

While cascades of sunshine poured out of the 
sky 
And blazed into bloom at his feet. 

And Pauline, the pretty and passionate-eyed, 
With a heart that was tender and true. 

In her gladful young gracefulness rode at his 
side 
Through the buttercups reeling with dew. 

That day is long dead and that land lies afar 

Beyond the dark, billowy deep, 
But the pale, golden gates in their dreams drop 
ajar 

And they see its old splendors in sleep. 



THE DREAM OF A DREAM 

The carking cares of life uplift — the passion 

and the pain; 
The lamentation for a loss; the grasping after 

gain; 
The memory of fickle friends who broke their 

faith with me; 
The white rose blooming o'er the dead I never 

more may see; 
The wrongs unspeakable that I have been com- 
pelled to bear; 
The poison of the liar's tongue; the traitor's 

subtle snare; 
All vanish, and my soul leaps up, triumphant, 

proud and free, 
When the Poets — O the Poets! — sing their 

wild, sweet songs to me; 
And breaking through my prison-bars, and 

scorning time and tide, 
I live with old memorial things, I wander 

spaces wide. 
Hot Afric jungles thick and green before my 

vision rise; 
A cruel tiger crouches there with bright and 

burning eyes. 
And in the shadow of a palm a naked native 

stands, 
With lifted spear — the savage son of still more 

savage lands. 
I see the desert stretching dim before mine 

aching eyes: 
Oases with their plumy palms carved green 

against the skies, 
141 



142 The Dream of a Dream 

And black Assyrian ruins where the tents uf 

Arabs gleam ; 
And the solemn site of Tyre where the fisher 

dreams his dream; 
And the stern and silent Pyramids, within 

whose ghostly gloom 
The crowned and sceptered Pharaohs wait the 

trumpet and the doom ; 
And dim seraglios steeped in bloom my burn- 
ing senses see, 
And minarets all crescent-crowned, when Poets 

sing to me. 
I see a summer island in the heart of Indian 

seas, 
Where the breath of reddest roses fills and 

thrills the throbbing breeze, 
As the shining shafts of sunset deepen in the 

Occident, 
And the pallid moon's white splendor with 

departing day is blent. 
Far above — the starry spaces of the purple 

tropic skies — 
Far below — the landscape swooning in its 

bloom and beauty lies — 
And the al sirat seems swinging from the 

moon unto the shore, 
And I almost see the angels, glad, victorious, 

trooping o'er. 
Sweeter still the Bards are singing: In a grand 

cathedral's gloom 
I am standing in the silence by an old Crusa- 
der's tomb — 
Standing in the speechless silence, while from 

gilded pillars tall 
Over lampless shrines the shadow of funereal 

banners fall. 



The Dream of a Dream 143 

But the organ's mournful music stirs the calm 

with muffled moan — 
Swells into the trump of thunders — sinks into 

a tinkling tone — 
Peals into a psalm of oceans — then the surg- 
ing music swoons, 
And it is the silvery singing of the birds of 

spicy Junes. 
But the vision breaks and changes. Louder 

now their songs upswell: 
Of the glorious Grecian City of the Violet 

Crown they tell ; 
Of towers old and beautiful on Erin's saintly 

shore, 
And of their hieroglyphics lost to legend and 

to lore; 
Of Scotia, where of spear and shield within a 

hoary time 
Blind Ossian struck his wizard harp and sang 

in strains sublime; 
Of ancient Albion's castle-halls, where long 

ago her lords 
Drank deep their horns of golden mead all at 

their wassail-boards. 
I see the beetling Alps arise white with eternal 

snow 
As when they rang with Gothic staves dim 

centuries ago ; 
I see Italia' s gardens spread before mine eager 

eyes — 
There splendor-shod the planets set and splen- 
dor-shod they rise; 
I see Alaska's frozen heights, and Brunswick's 

forests dim : 
The shores where sang the Puritans their 

wild deliverance hymn; 



144 '^^^^ Mar tyr- Band 

I see the thunder-cloven hills, the time-hewn 

canyons see, 
As of the savage Occident the Poets sing to 

me. 



But now the shadow falls athwart the solemn 

sunset hills, 
And dim the wild apocalypse that all this poem 

fills; 
The winds are still, and with the hush a mist 

has settled down 
Across the silent woods, across the white walls 

of the town; 
No music breaks the silence; there is neither 

scent nor shine; 
I lift mine eyes to the storm-sad skies — the 

dream of a dream was mine; 
But the Poets — O, the Poets! — they will come 

to me again 
When my heart is torn and bleeding on the 

Battle-field of Men. 



THE MARTYR-BAND 

When, looking through the mist of years, I 

hear the people's thunder-tones. 
And see the glitter of their spears, the blessed 

glare of burning thrones, 
I worship Freedom's martyr-band in every 

atom of my soul, 
Because through them our native land is free 

of T3^ranny's control. 



Siinamcam 145 

Upon the guillotine they shed their blood our 

fettered race to free; 
They drank the draught of poison red; they 

died in chains for you and me; 
And whether a Corday for France, an Emmet 

for old Erin's shore, 
They helped Humanity's advance to heights it 

never scaled before. 

Fragrant their memories to-day and flowering 
in the heart of man, 

And theirs is the supremest sway that hath 
been since the world began: 

The Truth they taught survives and shines in 
codes that are triumphant now — 

Broad codes to which the august lines of auto- 
crats themselves must bow. 

And, as the centuries increase, their influence 
to our star will bring 

A time of universal peace that knoweth nei- 
ther serf nor king, 

Nor crime, nor chain, nor gallows-tree, nor 
poverty beneath the sun, 

When one shall all the nations be and all flags 
blended into one! 



SUNAMCAM 

In the time — in the fair and the flowerful time 
Of the past — in the pride of our yearning 
and youth, 
When life was a song, and the song was sub- 
lime 



146 Sunamcam 

With the spirit— the sovereign spirit— of 
truth, 

We met, and our meeting was more unto me 
Than the crown of a Tsar, for thy friendship 
was worth 
All — all that the titles and treasures could be 
Of the earth — of the whole wide and won- 
derful earth. 

We parted — we parted. Thy life was a leal 
Devotion to duty — strong, tenderful, brave — 

And, O! if thy record my pen might reveal 
Thy way would be glorified unto the grave. 

We parted; yet through all my triumphs and 
tears, 
Thy friendship hath shone o'er my life like 
a star; 
Through the splendors and storms of the fugi- 
tive years 
It hath followed me fondly and followed me 
far. 

And when in the sovereign reach of thy days 
I heard that a leal love had come unto thee, 

To hallow still further thy words and thy v/ays, 
Through glories and glooms that we cannot 
foresee, 

My heart rose in rapture to feel that thy heart 
A rapture divine had been destined to know, 

To know — ere the mold and the miracle — part 
Of the happiness heaven can only bestow. 

May the rarest of lilies unfold for the eyes 
Of thy radiant bride; may she hear — may she 
hear 



Impromptu 147 

The sweetest of strains ringing down from the 
skies 
Like an lo triomphe, brave, vivid and clear! 

May sunbeams befriend her, and angels attend 
her, 
Through day-tides that ever shall desolate 
be, 
And all that is truest, and all that is tender 
Their benisons bravest and brightest sur- 
render 
To thine and to thee ! 



IMPROMPTU 

I know a beautiful, blue-eyed boy. 
Whose very name is a fount of joy 
To all who have known his look and tone, 
And the winsome ways that are all his 
own. 

O! a brave, bright boy is this boy of mine ! 
How his red cheeks glow I How his grand 

eyes shine! 
How merry his talk, and how graceful he! 
How his laughter rings with unstudied 

glee! 

Villadsen I May the roses bright 
And radiant, with their dews bedight, 
Stoop down all lowly and kiss thy feet 
And make thy life with all joy complete. 



148 Love and Lust 

I love thee! I love thee! and who shall dare 
Deny me the right to this love declare? 
Why, no one under the secret skies 
That bar out the blisses of Paradise. 



LOVE AND LUST 

What is love? What is the subtle feeling that 

can blend a soul 
With a fellow-soul forever, making of the twain 

a whole — 

Making of the twain a mutual thought, con- 
viction and desire, 

And a single ardent purpose unto which they 
both aspire? 

Thus he questioned, looking skyward from his 

lattice, while afar 
In the blue, immortal spaces shone a bright, 

immortal star. 

Still a dull, red flame was burning in the west 
— the funeral light 

Of the dead Day, passed forever into Nothing- 
ness and Night ! 

What is Love? Ah! dead Day lying where no 

life shall ever be. 
Many a vow of love was spoken while thy soul 

was strong in thee — 

Many a vow of love was broken in the circle of 

thy sun, 
Many a fair and foolish woman in thy passing 

was undone. 



Lo7ie and Lust 149 

Child of all the vast, vague cycles, knowing 

all they ever knew, 
Yet thy lips were sealed and silent to the ten- 

derful and true; 

Knowing all the tears and treasons that from 
Love and Lust have sprung. 

Yet thy lips were sealed and silent to the yearn- 
ing and the young. 

Day, O, Day! my black soul beating at its bars 

accuses thee 
Unto God within the glory of the scarlet sins 

of me — 

Of the scarlet sins that sent her in her wild, 

pure beauty down, 
And deserted her — a harlot — in the fierce heart 

of the town. 

Hark! A voice comes ringing downward from 

a citadel afar 
Through the still, immortal spaces, from that 

strange, immortal star: 

Soul with fellow soul communing, free from 

all the rot and fire 
Of the senses — proud, triumphant over every 

low desire; 

Harmonized in every atom with the being on 

thy breast, 
Throbbing with a perfect rapture, thrillant 

with a perfect rest; 

Caring for no bliss supremer in the blossom- 
land above 

Than the sanctity and splendor of her pres- 
ence — this is Love. 



I50 



Love and Lust 



And if Love the dead Day brought thee, it hath 

brought a sovereign thing, 
And although' a slave it found thee, it hath 

made of thee a king! 

If it brought thee Lust, far better thine the 

grave-worm and the grave, 
For although a king it found thee, it hath 

made of thee a slave. 

If thy soul is pure as star-fire, and as proud as 
it was born. 

It hath turned Lust from its portal with un- 
speakable, fierce scorn; 

But if putrid, slimy, crawling, it hath turned 

sweet Love awa}' 
With a hiss and sting that slew her as the soul 

alone can slay. 

Thou hast made thyself, and molded sense 
and soul, and thine the blame 

For the scarlet sins that haunt thee and that 
daunt thee with their shame. 

They will twine themselves as serpents 'round 
and 'round thy struggling soul — 

They will strike and they will sting thee till 
the endless end shall toll! 

Cowers he, and crieth hoarsely ; "God! O, God! 

and shall it be? 
Is there never a Nirvana where my spirit shall 

be free 

"Of its consciousness forever?" * * * Silence 

in the solitudes. 
Silence in the vast abysses where the awful 

secret broods; 



The Minnesinger 151 

Silence. Then a sharp cry shudders through the 

dewy dusk. Afar, 
In the still immortal spaces, shines that strange, 

immortal star — 

Shines upon his dead face lifted and his dead 

hands locked in prayer — 
And the red moon lifts its crescent, and the 

roses scent the air. 



THE MINNESINGER 

The minnesinger struck the strings, 
And sang of sea, and sky, and sod 

As but the types of mystic things 

Foreshadowed from the throne of God. 

The flash of floods upon the sand, 
The sails and shadows on the sea, 

The voice of forests, green and grand, 
The scent of lilies on the lea; 

The snows of dark December hours, 

The violets of merry May, 
The fronds of summer, and its flowers, 

The fall with golden fanyons gay: 

The night, with purple deep on deep, 
Besprent with immemorial stars; 

The fairies dancing on the steep 

Where fell the moonlight's yellow bars; 

The shriek of winds, and woods, and 
waves, 
When storms were clanging in the sk)', 



152 Kegi7iaUi Va7ie 

The crash of throbbing thunder-staves, 
The flame of meteors hurtling by — 

All these were fused within his strain, 
And lent a tongue to Nature, where 

Before, mute, passionate, in vain, 

She yearned her secret sense to bare. 



ulEGINALD VANE 

The tulips were twinkling beside the still 

stream 
Where we walked in the trance of a raptureful 

dream, 
While through all the silence and moonlight 

and scent 
Of the almonds, the song of the bulbul was 

blent. 

Reginald Vane! 

O, Reginald Vane! 
I think of that hour with passionate pain, 
For little I thought I would see thee no more 
When the miracle joy of that moment was o'er. 
The day broke in sky-fire, thunder and rain, 
But I looked for thy coming and looked me 

in vain; 
Then the dusk fell forever on me, and I knew 
That thy love was a lie, and thine oath was 
untrue. 

Reginald Vane! 
O, Reginald Vane! 
I would shield from thy soul the fell, terrible 
pain 



Feginald Vane 153 

That burned from my life all the beauty of youth 
And belief in all purity, honor, and truth! 
I cried to my pride, "Let the love that was leal 
Be stamped in a transport of hate under heel! 
Forget him forever ! " But, ah ! I would wake 
To weep in the desolate dark for thy sake! 

Reginald Vane! 
O, Reginald Vane! 
I knew that each tear on m}^ soul was a stain; 
But I could not — Christ, pity me — conquer the 

spell 
Of the past though it haunted and hissed me 
to hell! 

jj; ***** * 

One night I sprang out of my sleep. Through 

the bars 
Of my lattice was sifting the light of the stars, 
And there a dim, beautiful face I could see. 
With an infinite tenderness turned unto me. 

Reginald Vane! 

O, Reginald Vane! 
There flashed through my soul, and my heart, 

and my brain, 
The knowledge that out of thy palace of bone 
And of blood thy false spirit forever had flown. 

False spirit? Nay, nay! At the last — at the last, 
When the idle illusions that led thee were past, 
Thy spirit came back in its conquerless truth 
To the one, fixed, unperishing love of its youth. 

Reginald Vane! 
O, Reginald Vane! 
Thou art lying to-night under roses and rain; 
But I know in the glorified gardens above 
We will love through the consecrate cycles of 
love! 



PERCY 

A terrible day rolled up in the east, 

And the sk}^ was shot with a storm-red fire, 

As the clamor of cannon and guns increased 
And the battle drums beat higher. 

Then fell the night with a burst of rain, 
And lightning splintered the darkness vast, 

While I pressed my face to the window pane 
Till the morning broke at last — 

Broke in a wonderful flood of light 
That flushed the roses a redder hue. 

And lent the lilies a whiter white, 
The pansies a bluer blue. 

Clang! clang! the bells with rejoicing rang. 
And flags were from spire and ship un- 
furled. 
While the masses their maddest Te Deum 
sang 
To the slaves of a waking world! 

But, O! while many were mad with joy, 
I stood transfixed with a cruel pain 

As they told to me how my blue-eyed boy 
In the front of the fight was slain. 

What cared I then if my country's flag 
Should flash in triumph forevermore. 

Or whether its dim, proud folds should drag 
The foeman fierce before? 

I cared for nothing beneath the skies — 
All one to me was a crown or chain, 

Since death had darkened my Percy's eyes 
On a far Virginian plain! 

>S4 



UNA 

Una lay in her winding-sheet, 

And candles burned at her head and feet. 

Clarence came in his grand, young grace. 
And looked with love on her fair, sweet 
face. 

"O, Una! Una! my dream of bliss 
Has turned to the dust of a burial kiss. 

"I drank of lotus and dreamed that I 
Saw beautiful virgins passing by. 

"And they were fairer than. seraphs are 
Who wing and carol from star to star. 

"But fairer than phantoms conjured up 
By the potent spell of the purple cup 

"Were thy beautiful face and form — but 

now 
I must press a kiss on thy pallid brow, 

And wander back, back to the world once 

more, 
That never will be as it was before, 

"And try to drown in the dreamy bowl 
The sweetest memory of my soul!" 

^ -^ t- -i^ ^ 

Caryl came, and he knelt him there. 
And he looked with love on her features 
fair. 

"O, Una! Una! my heart is dead 
And turned to dust in thy cofhn-bed! 

155 



156 Una 

"O, darling! darling! I loved you so 
That back to the world I can never go. 

"I could not forget thee, O, my sweet! 
I would not forget thee, were it meet. 

"And yet the thought of thee lying low 
Will mock and madden me — this I know! 

"My heart went hungering through the 

world, 
But my look was cold and my lip was curled, 

"Till into my life thy sweet love came 
And set my spirit and sense a-fiame. 

"Immortal beauty illumed thy face, 
O, fairest daughter of all our race! 

"And the mystic strength of thy magic song 
Had snapt the thrall and had staid the 
thong; 

"But, O! thy beauty was naught to me. 
Nor the magic spell of thy minstrelsy. 

"I loved thee, sweet, for thy love alone 
That blossomed in every look and tone. 

"I stood in the light of thine eager eyes. 
And saw a passionate paradise, 

"And though my garments were stained 

with sin 
Its gates were open to let me in. 

"O, Una! Una! come back to me — 
If I were dead I would come to thee — 

"I would come to thee though the clods 
had prest 



Una 



157 



For a thousand years on my throbless 
breast!" 



Part her beautiful eyelids now, 
And the red blood mounts to her pallid 
brow ; 

Her white hands over her whiter breast 
Stir with a sudden and strange unrest; 

She rises out of her winding-sheet, 
Radiant, flushing and strangely sweet: 

"Caryl, never hath woman known 

A truer love than is thine, mine own! 

"In the thrall of my trance I heard them 

speak. 
And I felt their tears on my cold, cold 

cheek, 

"And I felt on my lips their kisses fall, 
But I could not struggle, nor breathe, nor 
call, 

"Till I felt the touch of th\^ tender lips 
Thrilling my frame to my finger-tips; 

"And heard thy passionate cry that came 
To my frozen blood like a blast of flame; 

"Then life leaped up in my heart's red core, 
And the world rolled under my feet once 
more!" 



The earth swept out of its brief eclipse 
As he held her lips to his eager lips; 



158 Song of the Tiventieth Century 

The morning-kiss on the world was prest 
As he held her breast to his eager breast. 

Then out of the marl^le halls they went. 
Through gardens with golden lilies sprent; 

And song and blossom and sun and bliss 
Were blent in their first sweet bridal-kiss! 



SONG OF THE TWENTIETH CENTURY 

Hosanna! Lift up the bright palm-branches 

higher, 
O, race that was ransomed through flood and 

through fire! 
Ring, stormily ring! O, ye bells in the steeples! 
Flash, merrily flash! O, ye flags of the peoples! 
The monarchs have fallen! the people are free! 

Vive, Liberty! 

O! think of the time when the toilers were 

slaves 
To the power of pitiless nabobs and knaves, 
Who said they were specially set by the Lord 
To rule with the rifle and scaffold and sword. 

By a spurt of the pen or a wag of the jaw 
They made vice a virtue, they made lust a law. 
And often some infandous leman was known 
To prompt the decrees that came down from 
the throne. 

Unrestful and thoughtful the people became, 
Aroused by oppression and plunder and shame, 



Song of the Twentieth Century 159 

And putting a Phrygian cap on a pole 
They marched on their masters by saddle and 
sole. 

The thugs of the throne heard the thunder and 

thrill 
Of huzzahs and of hisses, proclaiming the will 
And the wants of the mob, and they cowered 

with fear, 
For they felt the Twelfth Hour of Settlement 

near. 

The turbulent multitude, frenzied and fell, 
They tried with their sweet, soothing speeches 

to quelL 
In vain! The storm, brewing through thousands 

of years. 
Brake in blood and in fire, in terrors and tears! 

Sky-high were the temples of tyrannj^ blown, 
Knocked into a cocked hat were palace and 

throne, 
The king business stopped, and the folk of 

that trade 
Were turned out to labor with pen, loom and 

spade. 

Now is the Daybreak! Humanity reigns! 
Gone are the gallows, the bastiles and chains! 
Instead are the newspapers, suffrage and 

schools, 
And right is the might that our destiny rules. 

Hosanna! Lift up the bright palm-branches 

higher, 
O. race that was ransomed through flood and 

through firel 
Flash, merrily flash! O, ye flags of the peoples! 
Ring, stormily ring! O, ye bells in the steeples! 



i6o My Vision 

The monarchs have fallen! The people are 
free! 

Vive, Liberty! 



MY VISION 

The fire and flesh of my mortal being 
Slip from my spirit and, lo! I seem 

Facing the whole vast universe — seeing, 
Feeling and knowing I do not dream. 

Troop before me the grand, pure, glorious 
Friends who have filed through time and 
tomb 

Into a sphere where the}^ shine victorious 
Over the specters of Dust and Doom. 

One beloved in my far, free boyhood 

Comes in his glad, bright grace once more, 

Crowned with the crown of a perfect joy- 
hood, 
And kisses me as he kissed of yore. 

"Comrade!" he cries, in his old, blithe fash- 
ion, 
Taking my hand in his old, fond way, 
"Though I have passed through the pain and 
passion 
Of death I am deathless here to-day. 

"Though in the grave is the garment mortal 
In which I was manifest unto thee, 

Never in through that pale, chill portal 
Passed the part of me that is me. 



My Vision i6i 

"God is the glory tliat steeps with splendor 
The infinite universe through and through — 

The love that is passionate, sweet and ten- 
der, 
And all that is noble and brave and true. 

"The thought, the speech and the rapt desire, 
The miracle beauty of sea and sod. 

The longings higher and ever higher, 
Are God — and we all are a part of God! 

"Here is the Aiden, but Aiden is only 
The soul of the earth, of its evils free — 

Not a sphere that is strange or lonely, 
Or far from the planet where mortals be. 

"Here is our valley; the roses drifting 
In golden garlands from rock to rock — 

The sun through the oleanders sifting 
Its beams on our old familiar walk — 

"The walk that leads to the headlands older 
Fronting the vague, blue void of sea, 

Where oft we talked in the twilight golden, 
And dreamed of the victor-days to be. 

"Thus, O, comrade! the trysting-places 
And tender faces we knew in time. 

Gladden us still with their spirit graces. 
When we have passed to this sphere sub- 
lime. 

"Farewell!" — a flash of his wings uplifting. 
And, left once more on the mortal side, 

I hear the desolate, lost winds drifting 
Over the prairies wild and wide, 

And see the lights of the village burning 
Red through the sheeted mists, and see 



i62 Is it 1? 

The toilers home to their hearths returning, 
And hateful and harsh is the world to me. 

Hateful and harsh — but the rare, rapt vision 
Has left a hope in my heart that I 

Will live transfigured in lands elysian 
With all that I love, in the by and by. 



IS IT I? 

Out of my slumber shines a vision 
Of foamy forest and swirling sea; 

A sweep of emerald plain elysian— 
A flutter of white wings flashing free! 

Sheaf on sheaf of the fairest flowers 
Shiver and shine in the dripping dew, 

And down through the deeps of the bud- 
ding bowers 
A glimmer of glad seas slipping through. 

A tangle of songs and of sunbeams sifting 
Out of the infinite inner skies; 

A thrill of our unfledged wings uplifting 
And reaching the raptures of Paradise. 

There we stand in the warm June weather, 
While woodlands quiver and wavelets 
chime — 

There we stand with our lips together. 
And pulses rhyming a perfect rhyme. 

God! Through the casement crawls the 
morning — 



Claude St. Claire 163 

The cold, gray morning — and where is 
she? 
Seek where the amaranth is adorning 
A grassy grave by a singing sea! 

Shine the roses as in the olden 

Rapture-years when the world was young, 

Sing the robins as in the golden 

Glory-years with a thrillant tongue; 

Swings the world through the starry spaces 
Just as it swung when she and I 

Saw the summer with all its graces 
And garlands beautiful file by. 

But, O! for the passionate spirit missing 
Out of the waters and sky and wood! 

And, O! for the clasp of her and the kiss- 
ing— 
The joy un whispered, but understood! 

Lying low in my chamber lonely. 

Thinking of days that have drifted by. 

Only one cry can I utter — onl}^ 
"Heaven! O, heaven! and is it I?" 



CLAUDE ST. CLAIRE 

The lion of society was handsome Claude St. 

Claire, 
Because his blood was blue, because he was a 

millionaire. 
His iusculum in Chapel-street was a recherche 

place, 



164 Claude St. Claire 

Set off with all that gold could buy, and all 

that culture grace. 
The plate-glass windows shaded were by damask 

— which, withdrawn, 
Revealed the terraces of fiowers, the fountain 

on the lawn; 
The matchless pictures on the walls, by master 

painters limned, 
The lapse of crawling centuries of change had 

left undimmed. 
There were statuettes from Florence; there 

were shells from far Kathay, 
And relics from the ruins of dead cities, dust 

to-day; 
There were gilded chairs and tables; there were 

shelves in cozy nooks, 
Loaded with strange, monkish writings, and a 

motley wealth of books; 
Rugs of tiger-skins, black-spotted, from the 

sultry Afric shores, 
Lay upon the marble thresholds leading through 

the rosewood doors; 
There were orange-trees whose verdure was be- 

powdered with the snow 
Of the fragrant, flaky blossoms, bending 

down the branches low; 
There were cacti, spiked and thorny, that with 

lamp-like luster bloomed. 
And great, white, transparent lilies, by their 

golden hearts illumed; 
There were passionate musk-roses, red as wine, 

as subtly sweet. 
Rising up to kiss your forehead, falling down 

to kiss your feet; 
From the many tripod vases trailed long ten- 
drils to the floor. 
And their mesh of leaves was sprinkled with 

their flowers o'er and o'er. 



Claude St. Claire 165 



In his dressing-gown and slippers lolling by 

the fire there, 
With the London Times before him, was the 

haughty Claude St. Claire, 
Smoking listlessly and reading, in a lazy sort 

of way, 
Of the doings and misdoings of society that 

day, 
When his lively little valet into the apartment 

came 
And with many a bow he ushered in a wan 

and wrinkled dame. 
"I am Lora Lisle," spake she, "prophetess of 

things to be. 
And appointed and anointed to decree thy doom 

to thee! 
Far over lands and over seas, through whirl- 
winds and through flood. 
Through midnight mists and noon-day heat 

and battle-fields of blood, 
Unto this city I have come, a purpose at my 

heart, 
And it shall be fulfilled, I swear, before I will 

depart. 
O Cora! O, my only one! my only thing to 

love! 
You charmed her from me as the snake in 

jungle charms the dove. 
She left my arms for yours. Alack! I saw her 

nevermore. 
Though I have searched from year to year and 

searched from shore to shore; 
And all this time men glance at her as at a 

thing of shame, 
While you, far guiltier than she, the world 

does not defame. 



l66 Claude St. Claire 

'Your ways are ways of pleasantness, and all 

your paths are peace, ' 
While at my heart the gnawing worms of an- 
guish never cease. " 
"Hold! hold! you vixen," thus spake Claude 

with lips that looked a sneer, 
"You know that it takes two to make a bargain 

— do you hear? 
She was a party to the deed that has her ruin 

wrought, 
A willing party — but this fact you seem to 

think as naught. " 
"Cease! devil! cease! Did you not vow to wed 

her at the time? 
Think not with sophistries like these to hide 

or gloss your crime. 
Speak not!" his tongue clave to his teeth. 

"Stir not!" he was bereft 
Of motion — like a statue stood he there until 

she left. 
"Now, hearken!" thus the sorceress: "Remorse, 

seize on your prey. 
And haunt him in his dreams by night and 

in his walks b}^ day; 
A phantom at his hearth become, a specter at 

his feasts, 
Till he shall shun the sight of man and min- 
gle with the beasts! 
Desert him not, in youth or years, in sunshine 

or in shade! 
Desert him not until he weds the woman he 

betrayed ! " 

:}: ^ ;)< H= * 

She fixed a last, fierce look of hate on titled 

Claude St. Claire, 
And then she left him — sweeping from the 

room with royal air. 



Claude St. Claire 167 



He lifted up his face and wailed, then, stag- 
gering, fell prone 
Upon the floor, a sight for man and angels to 

bemoan. 
He wrung his hands, he clutched his heart, he 

shrieked in his despair, 
Until his valet hurried in to find him writhing 

there, 
And moaning: "O my- God! my God! have pity 

upon me; 
Now in its scarletness that sin for the first 

time I see. 
Forgive it! O, forgive it!" but in vain, in vain 

the cry — 
It seemed to fall back on him and to crush 

him from the sky. 
He felt that his false, faithless soul would still 

be crucified 
Until he sacrificed his place^ his family, his 

pride. 
"It cannot be! it shall not be!" cried lofty 

Claude St. Claire, 
"I will defy remorse!" he hissed, "I will defy 

despair!" 
And plunging into pleasures he had shunned 

with scorn till then, 
He soon became a favorite with all the fast 

young men — 
Became a hanger-on of clubs and green-rooms; 

lower still. 
Descending rounds of vice he went his time 

and thoughts to kill. 

The heads of idle exquisites were turned with 
his success, 



i68 Claude St. Claire 

They envied him his intrigues, and they copied 
him in dress, 

And a "lucky dog" they dubbed him — seeing 
not behind the veil, 

Knowing not his tribulations, hearing not his 
smothered wail; 

Knowing not the while he jested, with a smile 
upon his lips. 

That his heart was racked and bleeding, and 
his soul was in eclipse; 

Knowing not the while he reveled in debauch- 
ery that he 

Saw a skeleton beside him that none other 
eyes might see. 

In his restless dreams and frantic flew he from 
an unseen wrath. 

Through a vast, unending forest, down a dark, 
unending path. 

Where from black, unsightly marshes did a 
deadly vapor rise, 

Sickly, yellow and polluting to the black, tem- 
pestuous skies; 

Lurid lightnings shot and flickered through 
the thick, portentous gloom, 

And was heard the rolling thunder, boom re- 
plying unto boom; 

There long, prickly vines were rankly dangling 
down from bough to bough, 

And they tangled in his tresses, and they stung 
and smote his brow; 

There the bats wheeled in a circle, there the 
green snake, glittering, sprang 

From its hideous coil before him with a viru- 
lent, sharp fang. 

Strange, unshapely pagan idols, standing here 
and there he saw, 

Staring through the weeds upon him with a 
still, majestic awe. 



Claude St. Claire 169 

Dim, uncertain ghosts were flitting through 
the solitude, the while 

That uncanny voices muttered things all bias 
phemous and vile. 

Waking to the lash of conscience, he would 
gnash his teeth and rave 

For the rapture of destruction, and the shelter 
of the grave; 

Till at last, worn down and nervous, he was 
all too weak to play, 

In the salon or the brothel, part of gallant light 
and gay. 

He became a very hermit— living far with- 
drawn from men, 

With the brutes for his companions, in a green 
and peaceful glen. 

But in flying self no mortal has succeeded 
through all time — 

For within us, not without us, is the dreadest 
doom of crime. 

Thus it was with Claude — his lonely and se- 
cluded hermit-cell 

In the hushed and sunny woodland was to him 
a very hell; 

And the glimpses through the greenwood of the 
sky, serene and blue, 

And the lush of vernal branches, and the wild- 
buds dripping dew, 

Seemed to his phrenetic fancy blurred by bale- 
ful smoke that rose, 

With a hot and palsied motion, from the flam- 
ing world of woes; 

And the twitter of the song-bird and the chim- 
ing of the wave 

Seemed to mingle with the ravings of the 
damned beyond the grave; 

Till at last his pride was humbled — pride of a 
fierce, kingly race, 



lyo Claude St. Claire 

That through centuries had trampled on the 
poor and weak and base. 

"O, thou devil, thou hast triumphed!" with a 
fearful curse he cried, 

"I must bow unto thy bidding — Cora shall be- 
come my bride; 

But hate rankles in my bosom, and I swear 
that I will mete 

Out revenge unto the demon who thus brings 
me to her feet." 

So he wandered from the woodland back unto 

the world again, 
And straight went he, without staying, to a 

gilded bawd3^-den. 

;(; ^ ;{{ ^ ^ 

There he found his Cora, dancing with a roud, 

in a room 
Bright with gas and gay with music, perfumed 

by the tropic-bloom; 
Heard he many a lustful whisper, heard the 

full wine-glasses clink. 
Saw the wrecked but lovely women toasts unto 

their lovers drink. 
"Cora," spake he softly, "Cora, leave, O, leave 

this shameless life 
And I will forgive thy sinning, and thou shalt 

become my wife." 
''Dost thou dareT' she started from him, and 

she stood before him, there. 
In her trailing amber velvet, and the jewels in 

her hair. 
Fair her face, but cold and cruel, lit by eyes 

whose eldritch flame 
Hungry, changing, darting, restless, told of 

sin and told of shame; 



Claude St. Claire 171 

Golden, silk}' tresses twisted into many a curl 

and braid 
On her rouged and powdered features threw a 

ripe and tawny shade, 
And her thin, red lips were parted with a proud 

and scornful look, 
While her form, imperious, queenly, with her 

very fury shook, 
As she spake: "Once — once, thou traitor! I — 

I would have been to thee 
More, far more than any woman in this world 

will ever be; 
For I worshiped thee to madness, aye, to very 

madness, man! 
As the sun himself is worshiped by the priests 

of Ispahan ; 
How, O! how did you repay me? Dragged me 

to my ruin down, 
Then deserted me, a harlot, in the cold streets 

of the town! 
Fiend, however sunk in vices, dark, repulsi^ j, 

I may be. 
In the sight of the Impartial I am purer far 

than thee. 
Aye, thou art as far beneath me — 7ne, a lost and 

guilty thing — 
As Apollyon in the fire, to Ithuriel on the 

wing! 
Go! thy presence is pollution! Go!" — she proud- 
ly turned from him, 
While he, livid with his terror, shivering in 

every limb, 
Choked and reeled, then blindly, deafly, 

madly, rushed he to the door. 
Sped into the rain and darkness, and was 

seen of man no more! 



ANONYMA 

The sunlight is slanting through woodlands up- 
lifting 
Their merry green garlands beside the blue 
sea, 
The songs of the happy young reapers are 
drifting 
Far over the harvest-fields hither to me. 

Once in a miracle-morning together 

This landscape was limned in our eager 
young eyes, 

While over the far cliffs all fringy with heather 
We saw a white sail blossom out of the skies. 

4 

It bore to our beautiful manse a bright stranger, 
As handsome as any young god on a throne, 
And, fool that I was! I was dreamless of dan- 
ger, 
Believing your blameless, white heart was 
my own. 

Did I reproach you, O, wonderful woman! 

When you surrendered your soul to his lust? 
Never! For knowing your passions were human 

I threw you a rose where you lay in the dust. 

Forever from trust and from tenderness parted, 
A proud and a passionless cynic to be, 

I threw you a rose I had kissed, and departed 
Again to a world that was worthless to me. 

Did I reproach you, O, wonderful woman! 
Sweeter by far than the sweetheart of God! 
172 



optimism 173 

Nay, for I knew that your passions, though 
human. 
Had nothing in common with me, a poor 
clod. 

Then bless you, my bride! Though your sins 
are as scarlet, 

They whiten as wool in the light of my love; 
And though you are living the life of a harlot, 

I place you the purified angels above-^ 



OPTIMISM 

The juice which this jasper cup contains 
Was pressed from a poppy of Persian plains — - 
A poppy changed by a subtle power 
From an ugly seed to a lovely flower — 
A flower that caught in its crimson snare 
An occult influence from, the air, 
To charm the sense, and the soul to cheer, 
And render the riddles of life more clear. 

I will drink the draught, for my heart beats 

low 
With the weight of its weary, unwhispered woe; 
For once in the passionate years of old 
I loved a friend with a love untold; 
But I thought him false, for I thought that he 
Had lured the heart of my bride from me; 
So I threw my glove in his grave, sweet face. 
And ,we met in a moon-lit forest-place. 
Our bright, keen swords from their scabbards 

sprang 
And flew together with clash and clang, 



174 Optimism 

But his brittle blade in the battle broke, 
And I drave him down with a swift, sharp stroke. 

A cloud passed over the pallid moon — 
A witch-whelp barked in the black lagoon — 
A shuddering wind the branches blew, 
And a raven croaked as it downward flew. 

Suddenly Carolyn spake to me: 

"My friend, I never was false to thee, 

But God forgive me my sins below 

As I forgive thee this fatal blow. 

The heart of thy bride is of blemish free, 

She is my sister, and true to thee. " 

"Thy sister?" I shrieked, "thy sister? No! 

Say to me — say that it is not so!" 

Thus, with a pitiful cry, I plead, 

Kissing and kissing the dumb, white dead, 

Pushing the gory and golden hair 

Back from his forehead so broad and fair, 

When a resonant cry rang in my ear, 

And I staggered back with a nameless fear, 

And there in that lonely forest-place 

I stood with my young bride face to face. 

With the corpse between us! She lifted high 

Her slim, white hand to the stormy sky. 

And there by her dead, by her murdered dead, 

She called for a curse upon my head. 

And then she fell on the scarlet sod 

And yielded her white ghost unto God. 

I drink of the draught this cup contains, 
Its fire flows through my frozen veins. 
Wing-footed I walk in a lovely land 
By skies of violet splendor spanned; 
I pause in a pleasaunce, and I behold 
A pearly palace with gates of gold, 
Lapped in a glorified garden, where 



optimism 1 75 

The fountains flash in the amber air. 
From fluted vases as white as snow 
The fire-cupped flowers flame and flow; 
The scintillant sunlight drips and drops 
Through plumy palms and through citron 

copse; 
The song-birds sing in the swinging spray 
Then flit, like a flight of stars, away 
To the lambent lake where the lotus laves 
Its purple petals within the waves. 

But, look! for my sweet bride I behold. 
And the friend I loved with a love untold! 
They come to me and they clasp my palms — 
Their touch my turbulent spirit calms — 
And thus my Carolyn comforts me: 
"It is best that whatever is should be. 
The hidden plan of the Universe 
Is perfect. Never a crime nor curse 
But had its mission, and it will be 
Unveiled to our eyes in Eternity." 

Softly and sweetly breathes my bride: 
"Forget the desolate night I died. 
Forget the blood that was blindly shed, 
Forget the withering words I said. 
Fate foreordained that thy hand should smite 
My darling brother that dreadful night. 
Then be courageous and be content. 
Thou art innocent — thou art innocent!" 

The vision vanishes — but a blest, 
New hope is nestling within my breast, 
And over and over it says to me: 
"Whatever is^ it is best should be." 



LAUNCELOT 

Here in my lone, lampless chamber I stand 
Close by the casement, and look through the 
pane 
At the wild, roaring sea rolling up on the sand, 
Where the lights of the village shine red 
through the rain. 

Shiver the roses that drape the gray eaves, 
'Reft of their glorified garlands of bloom. 

While in the kirkyard the wan, ghostly leaves 
Flutter and fall over temple and tomb. 

Many and many Octobers ago, 

Afar in the dust of a desolate year, 
We parted in ^passion where shrubs cowered 
low 
And the hiss of the serpent was heard in the 
wier. 

The sickly moon turned into blood as I wept. 
And the pale stars went staggering under the 
clouds. 
When, lo! from the graves where thy ancestors 
slept, 
Came shuddering skeletons out of their 
shrouds! 

They pointed their terrible fingers at me: 
"Curse thee, and curse thee!" they all spake 
as one — 

"He had delivered our house but for thee, 
Now we are ever and ever undone! " 

The brave suns have risen, the brave suns have 
set, 

176 



Eternity on Earth 177 

And dim are my blue eyes and bonny to- 
day, 
And fairer than fleece are my tresses of jet, 

And the wrinkles have driven the roses 
away; 

But still this bright thought brings an infinite 
calm: 
I will meet with my lover all tender and 
true, 
When unto the Isles of the Lyre and Palm 
I set my white sails and go journeying, too. 

But out of the dust of that desolate year 

Rings the curse that is written in blood on 
my brow, 
And my heart is crushed down with a desperate 
fear — 
Launcelot, Launcelot, where are you now? 
O, where are you now? 



ETERNITY ON EARTH 

"That face I 
I turned and fied from the moonlit place — 
Turned with a quivering cry and fled, 
For the grave had surrendered its dear, sweet 

dead! 
Back in my unlit room, I drew 
The curtain; the vines were dripping dew, 
And flashed in the moonlight, keen and cold, 
As they flashed in that nameless night of old." 



178 Eternity on Earth 

"My darling, you dream!" 

"O, mother mine! 
I was standing there, where the trumpet-vine 
Drips fragrance over the rocks below, 
When I heard a voice that I used to know — 
When I saw a face I had seen before — 
A face that will haunt me forevermore; 
For, O! on a nameless night like this, 
While Time was reeling through bloom and 

bliss, 
And Christ was reaching our world to kiss, 
I met him there where the trumpet-vine 

Spills fragrance over the rocks below. 
And he said that his rapturous love divine 

I never and never again should know; 
My blood was turned into madding wine, 

And I killed him there, for I loved him so, 
And the sea swirled up, and the crimson sign 

Was washed from the shivering sands — 
but, O, 
Its stain is forever upon my soul, 
Till the funeral-bells for Christ shall toll! 
Till the funeral-bells — O, heaven, forbear! 
He is standing there! He is standing there!" 

"What! on the lawn?" spake the Lady Lisle, 
"Why, that is Sir Sidney. Come with me. 

You never have met him; a little while 
Ago he came from the Afric sea." 

They passed through the palace-halls. 

They met Sir Sidney, the soldier who knew 
no fear — 
In tones that ring down the cycles yet, 

He cried: "Thou traitress, and art thou 
here? 
My blood is upon thy hands! " 



Eternity on Earth 179 

And then, 
He said, with a start and a silly smile, 
I was dreaming a strange, mad dream again — 
Forgive and forget it, my Lady Lisle." 



And she who killed him, in the life before this 

life, became his own, 
And happier were they, I hold, than God upon 

his golden throne! 

* >K jK * * 

The men who walk our streets to-day will walk 

them when a thousand years 
Have drained their flesh and blood to dust and 

blown it to the furthest spheres. 
And I will meet thee yet, my love, within a 
forest still unsown, 
Or city still unbuilt, and I will kiss thy scar- 
let lips with mine; 
And though thy alien grave to-day by August 
grass is overgrown, 
I know that thou art .living yet in zone of 
palm or zone of pine — 
Art living in a skeleton and skull and skin, to 
me unknown, 
But in the cycle unconceived thy soul and 
body will be mine; 
For thou wilt die and live and die a million 
times, -mayhap, until 
The atoms of the universe shall readjust 
themselves once more — 
Just as they were when first we throbbed with 
the unwhisperable, hot thrill. 
While palpitating breast to breast within the 
morning-years of yore! 



IN A MAD-HOUSE 

Come back, come back to me for an hour, 

And speak to me, sweet, as you spake of old! 
Wear in your ringlets the red, rank flower 

1 tore from the grass in the graveyard mold — 
I tore from the grass where the dead boy sleeps 

With the worms, in his windowless palace 
low; 
Where the trail of his brave, bright blood still 
creeps 

As it crept in the starlight long ago. 

The devilish roses kissed my face 

And my hair was dripping with starry dew, 
When I met him there in our trysting-place 

And killed him, sweet, for my love of you! 
The universe gasped like a thing in pain, 

The moonbeams struck at the shrieking sea. 
The sod lay shuddering with the stain 

And the golden lilies shrank back from me; 
But my heart sang high as I went my way 

With a hiss of hate for the blameless boy. 
Then limb to limb by your side I lay 

And throbbed with a thrill of God's own joy. 
For you slept in my bare, blest arms — but, O! 

They bore me off to this prison-place, 
And suns of splendor and swirls of snow 

Have drifted by since I kissed your face! 

Then come. O! beautiful demon! Come! 

In a few swift, fugitive years at best 
You and I will be lying dumb 

And blind to all that our love possessed; 
1 80 



The Poet- Boy i8i 

But I will hunt you and haunt you there 

From zone to zone through the fields of fire, 
And I will rivet the chains you wear, 

And I will baffle your last desire. 
If Christ shall summon you to his spheres 

I will smite 3'ou back as you seek to soar, 
And flames of Hades shall dr}' our tears 

And melt us together forevermore! 

Then come, O, come to me for an hour, 

And speak to me, love, as you spake of old! 
Wear in your ringlets the red, rank flower 

I tore from the grass in the graveyard mold — 
I tore from the grass where the bright boy 
sleeps 
With the worms, in his windowless palace 
low; 
Where the trail of his beautiful blood still 
creeps 
As it crept in the moonlight long ago! 



THE POET-BOY 

In memory of John W. Robb, Jr., Rosedale, Miss. 

The bright June-lights were shining, like the 

gladdest smile of God, 
The white June-lilies sparkled in the fresh and 

fragrant sod, 
The sweet June-winds were winging through 

the flowerful woods and fair. 

The wild June-birds were singing in the vivid 
arc of air; 



1 82 The Poet- Boy 

Never did a morn diviner on our roseful Sun- 
land rise, 

Since the glad stars sang together in the blue, 
triumphant skies! 

Then it was, O, Poet-brother! then it was I 
saw thee last! — 

There the lights concenter on thee in m}' King- 
dom of the Past! 

How the jocund hours went dancing! and what 
friends we met that day! 

There was Holland, the great-hearted, who 
has gone the heavenly way; 

There was Falconer, the fearless, — wept with 
O, such wistful tears, 

And Frank Walter in the brightest flush and 
splendor of his years! 

In a glorious procession, with the gifted and 

the brave. 
With the beautiful and loving, they have filed 

through the grave 
To the star-spheres sempiternal, far beyond the 

secret skies. 
There to walk beside still waters, under palms 

of Paradise! — 
There to dwell with highest heroes who have 

lived and died for man 
Since that far, fresh-hearted morning when 

humanity began. 

And while still our tears were falling where 

their shining foot-prints be. 
Suddenly there came a summons, and this time 

it came for thee. 
In the sweet and stainless splendor of a life 

and love supreme 
Thou must pass the star-lit portal to the Realm 

of which we dream; 



The Poet- Boy 183 

Thou must leave thy ringing lyre, wreathed with 

half-blown flowers, unstrung, 
Leave thy labors uncompleted, and thy sweetest 

songs unsung. 
Why was it? O, why was it? In vain-^in vain 

we cry — 
From out the far, white citadel returneth no 

reply. 
***** 

The day when last we spake farewell is dead 

forevermore, — 
No summer in the years to be its radiance can 

restore. 
As bright the skies may shine, as white the 

flaky lilies flower, 
The winds may wing, the song-birds sing, as 

in that halcyon hour, 
But, O, its occult loveliness, its subtle thrills 

of bliss, 
Its mystic lights and melody forever I will miss, 
For thy presence, O, thy presence, there I 

nevermore will see, 
And with thee from the vision went its very 

soul from me. 

But there is a Revelation, and it redes itself 

to man — 
Known it was in every cycle, unto every creed 

and clan. 
Taught the simple heart primeval by the still, 

small voice within, 
Prompting it to deeds of duty — urging it to 

shrink from sin. 
Pictured on the cliffs and lowlands, chiming in 

the surge of seas, 
, Glowing in the star-dust golden, blossom.ing in 

shrubs and trees, 



1 84 , The Poet- Boy 

Beaming in the looks love-lighted of the ten- 
der and the true, 
Whispered by the lips of spirits sheltered from 

our mortal view, 
Speaking in our hopes and yearnings, and our 

dim dreams of the night, 
Tempering our tears and passion when a twin- 
soul takes its flight, 
Proving stronger and supremer as the world 

heaves high and higher 
From the depths of superstition and the mists 

, of low desire! 
And this Revelation redeth that our dead have 

never died — 
That it was the yoke and fetters only that they 

laid aside, 
That they live in Kingdom fairer than is lit by 

mortal sun — 
Thrilled with triumph at the conquest and the 

crown forever won — 
Live where purer joys and purer draw them to 

diviner plains, 
And forever, reaching toward them, some new 

happiness remains. 
Where with victor-songs of gladness they will 

welcome us at last. 
When the fitful frost and fever of our lives are 

overpast. 

And I know in that leal Kingdom is thy lyre 

heard to-day, 
Sweeter, sweeter and completer than when 

manacled with clay — 
For I know thy spirit liveth, and I know it 

leadeth still; 
That a high and holy mission it will help us 

to fulfill. 



New Year 185 

Though we strew the rose and lily on thy 

youthful shrine with tears, 
There is this to recompense us, that through 

all the rounding years 
Thou wilt lead us high and higher to the 

bright, victorious spheres! 



Poet-brother! Poet-brother! when the white 

magnolias bloom, 
Or the wintry yews are weeping at the dark 

door of my tomb, 
In the Country of Contentment may my friends 

and comrades be, 
Poet-brother!, Poet-brother! thee, and great, 

grand souls like thee! 



NEW YEAR 

Out of the future, dumb and dim, 
The New Year comes to-day. 

And a rollicking world is receiving him 
In its old memorial way. 

With feast and frolic in hut and hall, 
And many a cheer and chime, 

And the "Happy New Year unto 3'e all! 
That comes from the olden time. 

What will he bring to you, my friends, 

What will he bring to me, 
Before his last dark hour descends 

In a midnight yet to be? 



1 86 New Year 

Life will he bring imto babes unborn, 
With its miracle moods, we know; 

Some to splendor and some to scorn, 
Through all of their lot below; 

Death will he bring unto many, and dear, 
Brave hearts will beat their last 

Before the chimes of the next New Year 
Shall tingle upon the blast; 

Tears to many who smile to-day, 

Smiles to the tearful ones. 
In the same old merry or mocking way. 

For thus our destiny runs. 

Bridal blisses to many a soul. 

Burial shrouds to more; 
For thus are blended delight and dole 

Till all of the years are o'er; 

Yet, hail ye the New Year, bonny and 
bright, 

And hope that his sovereign hands 
Will scatter liberty, love and light. 

All over these lower lands; 

And whether he favor or fell thee, boys, 
In the battle and blare of Time, 

Strike gallantly out for the golden joys 
And the higher heights sublime. 



PROGRESS OF THE PEOPLES 

Upward, upward press the peoples to that 

pure, exalted plane, 
Where no throne shall cast a shadow and no 

slave shall wear a chain. 

They have trampled on the fagots — broken 

crucifix and wheel, 
Banished block, and thong, and hemlock, and 

the headsman's bloody steel; 

Forced the Church-hold to surrender stake, and 
scourge, and bolt, and bar — 

Torn the keys from off its girdle— thrown the 
gates of Truth ajar; 

They have forced the titled tyrants human 

rights to recognize. 
And with bayonet and' saber they have slain a 

legion lies; 

They are lighting lamps of freedom on a mill- 
ion altar-stones. 

With the torches they have kindled at the blaze 
of burning thrones; 

And this light will sweep and circle to the 

very ends of earth. 
Touching with immortal beauty every heart 

and every hearth — 

Thrilling every human being underneath the 
silent skies, 

And transfiguring our planet to a perfect par- 
adise! 

187 



1 88 Progress of the Peoples 

As we higher march and higher on into this 

light serene, 
Every man will be a kaiser, ever}^ woman be a 

queen — 

Ay! queen-regnant, then, and ransomed from 
the thralls she wears to-day, 

While her husband, son and brother, walk un- 
fettered on their way. 

She hath wept and prayed in passion — bitterly 

hath made her moan — 
All the terrors and the tortures of the tyrants 

she hath known — 
Still, the blood that flows for freedom flows 

for man, and man alone. 

Nay, behold! the light is burning with a strong 

and stronger flame, 
And the foremost in the phalanx see the stark 

and stinging shame — 

See the biting, blasting, burning shame of sex- 
oppression now. 

And, with hearts and hands uplifted, swear a 
grand and godlike vow, 

That, despite the fangs of Custom and despite 

the Church's frown. 
Womanhood shall wield its scepter, womanhood 

shall wear its crown. 

She hath borne with man his crosses, she hath 

worn with man his chains; 
She hath suffered all his losses, she hath 

suffered all his pains — 
She shall stand with him, co-equal, on the 

pure, exalted planes! 



BETRAYED 

"Room for the hero! Room!" 

And the mob fell back at the cry, 

As under the flags and over the flowers 
A pageant proud swept by — 

To the roar of cannon and ripple of trumps 
A pageant proud swept by. 

A girl — a girl of the pave— 

Was all I could claim to be; 
The soul of my sweet, pure, virgin self 

Had been betrayed from me 
By a devil who looked like a god divine — 

Had been betrayed from me. 

"Now, who is this hero — who?" 

I thought in a languid way, 
And pressed through the clamoring crowd 
to see 

Its demi-god of the day — 
The warrior, king or statesman who 

Was its demi-god of the day. 

O, Christ! It was Carolyn, 

Who had ruined and wrecked my life 
By his vow — by his false and his fatal vow 

That I should be his wife — 
His vow that had dragged me down to hell 

That I should be his wife. 

A puff of smoke, a flash, 

A whistling ball, and he 
Lay dead all under his horse's hoofs^ 
189 



I go Victor 

And damned through the life to be— 
Lay dead in his veriest victor hour, 
And damned through the life to be 

Then, O, how the rabble raved! 

How it tore me with tooth and fang! 
And I was borne to this dungeon dark 

While the air with their curses rang — 
While the air of that soft, bright Paris 
morn 

With their pitiless curses rang. 

They will drag me out to-day 
To the guillotine, and my head 

Will drop in the basket as my blood 
Stains it a fiercer red — 

Stains France^ — stains all of humanity 
A still more savage red. 

But I hold this sovereign truth 

That my act was right — was right! 

He had taken my better self from me 
And hurled it down to night — 

Had taken the life of my soul from me 
And hurled it down to night. 



VICTOR 

"Victor, my Victor!" Out of my sleep I sprang 

as I spake thy name. 
For, O! I had seen thee in a dream — had 

looked in thy bright, brown eyes, 
And thy laughter and look, and thy tone and 

touch were the same — were the very same 



Victor igi 

As of old when this passionate planet of 
ours to us was a paradise. 

"I was only dreaming," I said to myself, and 
I gazed from the lattice where 
The golden moonlight was sifting through 
the boughs of a blasted tree, 
And I saw — I saw with a shudder and sob a 
gray old gravestone there 
That bore the name of a noble one who was 
body and soul of me. 

"Victor, O, Victor!" I cried once more, when 
thy sovereign hour was near, 
And I clasped and kissed thee, O, comrade 
mine, with a mad, fierce, hopeless moan. 
I heard thee whisper, "Be brave, O, heart! 
though unto an unknown sphere 
My soul is passing, I will come back unto 
thee — my own! my own!" 

Then through the oriel windows stole a ra- 
diance half divine. 
And a zephyr wafted the rose-leaves in from 
the garden green outside, 
As Samael set upon thy brow his awful and 
august sign, 
And they said that between us lay at last a 
universe waste and wide. 

But I spake, with a smile of scorn for death, 
"My darling will come to me! 
Though his atoms shall blossom again with 
life in the pure, sweet pansy flowers, 
Though they drift with the clouds in the crys- 
tal sky over many a dim blue sea. 
Or trill in the throats of the singing-birds as 
they swing in the budding bowers; 



1 92 Victor 

"Ay! though they glitter in grain-fields bright, 
and, passing from form to form. 
They enter the bodies of other men, and on 
through an endless chain, 
I know — I know he will come to me with his 
passion sweet and warm, 
And wonderful as it was of yore, without one 
spot or stain!" 

But, Victor, Victor! thy vow is still unvital- 
ized by thee, 
Though our planet has passed through the 
suns and snows, the songs and the sobs 
of years; 
And my soul in agony has appealed to gods 
that it cannot see 
Till, ground into unbelief at last, it breaks 
into bloody tears. 



God! what is that by thy gravestone there — 
that strange, ineffable light 
Instinct with the life that throbs in me — it 
seems of myself a part. 
What subtle essence has entered earth and uni- 
verse and the night? 
And what is it calling unto my brain and 
spirit and sense and heart? 

Victor, O, Victor! it is thee! I feel it is thee, 
my own! 
No longer a solitary self, but blent with the 
universe. 
Thrilled through with every blessing it knows 
or has ever known, 
Yet bearing with pure, brave, marvelous 
power its every crime and curse; 



Victor 193 

A part of all that has ever been, is, or will ever 
be, 
From the yellow light of the planet to the 
yellow primrose there; 
A part of the very Godhead, and the glorious 
part of me; 
A part of the crawling serpent, and a part of 
the bird in air! 

And I know when out of the finite to the in- 
finite I shall go, 
I will shine in the light immortal of the sun 
upon my grave, 
I will bloom in the red, proud roses that out 
of my breast shall grow. 
And live in the larger freedom of the wind 
and wood and wave. 

I will laugh in the little children; I will love 
in the lover's breast; 
I will cry with a vast, keen rapture as I melt 
in thy mystic soul; 
Will know the supremest action, will feel the 
divinest rest. 
And I who was here an atom shall aggregate 
the whole. 

Then here is to Death, my darling! I drink of 
the ripe, red wine; 
And here is another beaker to coffin and 
shroud and pall! 
And here is unto the hour when my soul shall 
fuse with thine 
Through the circles of God's creation, and 
be of the All-in- All! 



'? 



CARYL 

Come to my arms, O, Caryl! Come to my arms 

once more! 
Let me thrill with the keen, quick rapture that 

ran through my veins of yore! 
Let me know that I am forgiven for the duty I 

left undone 
When thy bridal roses were blooming and thy 

bridal robe was spun. 

The lilies of that lost summer are fragrant 

and fair once more; 
The songs of that dim, dead summer are soft 

as they were of yore; 
The sky of that sweet, slain summer bends 

over our star below 
With all of the violet splendor and sparkle of 

long ago. 

But, ah! for their mystic meaning and their se- 

cretest sense no more 
Rhyme in with my reckless spirit as they did 

in the days of yore, 
When the grace of thy glad, free presence, the 

light of thy loving eyes, 
Touched all of the world with glory — the glory 

of Paradise! 

rd barter the keys of heaven — I'd trample 

them under feet, 
For the thrillant touch of thy kisses, the throb 

of thy clasp, my sweet! 
And, O, for thy true forgiveness and tender to 

hear thee tell, 

194 



Vivian 195 

I'd welcome the fire and fetters of the utter- 
most under-hell! 

Then come to my arms, my Caryl, if it only a 
moment be! 

Come to m}^ arms, beloved, and, O, let me 
melt in thee! 



VIVIAN 

Vivian! 

Vivian! 

Where are you now? 

O, where are you now? 

The soft golden hair has turned gray on my 

brow. 
And my heart is no longer in trancefulest tune 
With the roses and raptures of jubilant June. 
This wonderful world holds a heaven and hell 
'Twixt the christening-font and the funeral 

bell, 
And my heaven was lost when you left me that 

morn 
In the pride of your passion, the strength of 
your scorn. 

Vivian! 

Vivian! 

Where are you now? 

O, where are you now? 

In the dust of desire you trampled your vow; 

The ear of an adder you turned to ni}^ cries 

For the kiss of her lips and the light of her 

e3^es ; 
In the tingle of triumph you hurled me to hell 



196 Vivian 

For the pleasure that lay in her passionate 

spell ; 
A harlot and homeless j^ou left me that morn 
~n the pride of your passion, the strength of 

vour scorn. 

Vivian! 

Vivian! 

Where are you now? 

O, where are you now? 

I know that the cere-cloth is chill on your 

brow, 
Afar where the floods of the Arkansas flow. 
In the wild, mournful forests you slumber, I 

know — 
In the wild, mournful forests and fens where 

you fled 
When you knew that the heart of your darling 

was dead — 
When she turned, in her weakness, a traitor to 

thee. 
As you, in your weakness, turned traitor to 
me. 

Vivian! 

Vivian! 

Where are you now? 

O, where are you now? 

Are you walking in glory upon the green brow 

Of the heavenly highlands, beyond the blue 

bars 
Of the sky that is blooming with beautiful 

stars? 
Or, lashed with the scorpion-lashes of God, 
Are you treading the plow-shares that Lucifer 

trod? 
Or there, where the Arkansas rolls to the deep, 
Is your spirit as well as your senses asleep? 



Percival 197 

Vivian! 

Vivian! 

Where are you now? 

O, where are you now? 

In my dreams I still feel your hot kiss on my 

brow — 
In my dreams I still feel the old clasp of your 

palm, 
And my spirit sweeps out into infinite calm; 
And I know that m\' love is immortal, and I 
Will rest on your heart when the world has 

swept by — 
Will rest on your heart through the passionate 

years, 
Beyond the pale phantom of Time and its 
tears ! 



PERCIVAL 

Percival sprang to his saddle-tree 

When pansies w^ere purple and grass was 
green, 
And over the heathery hills went he 
To see his lily — his own Lurline. 
He halted his horse b}' the sounding sea — 
He halted his horse by the bounding sea, 
And thought what a startling thing and strange 
Was its constant, but ever inconstant, change: 
Roaring, raving, laughing, leaping. 
Shining, shouting, crying, creeping. 
Tinkling, throbbing, sighing, sleeping. 
Evermore — evermore! 



I g8 Per civ al 

He spurred his steed till he made it bleed, 
When pansies were purple and grass was 
green, 
And rode over river and rock and mead 

To meet his lily — his own Lurline. 
He watched the sky as he went his way, 
Through grass and flowers and forests gay, 
And thought what a startling thing and strange 
Was its constant, but ever inconstant, change: 
Howling, scowling, glory-gleaming. 
Purpling, paling, splendor-streaming, 
Darkling, sparkling, beaming, dreaming, 
Evejrmore — evermore ! 

A year went 'round as he rode apace, 

And pansies were purple and grass was green, 
Yet on he went in his glad young grace. 

To clasp his lily — his own Lurline. 
He watched the sod as he watched the sky 
While the seasons went with their banners by. 
And thought what a startling thing and strange 
Was its constant, but ever inconstant, change: 
Thrilling, chilling, snowflakes sifting 
On the dead leaves o'er it drifting. 
Glad and green and garland-lifting. 

Evermore — evermore ! 

He came to the castle one dreamy dawn, 
When pansies were purple and grass was 
green, 
And after all he had undergone 

He kissed his lil}^— his own Lurline. 
And he watched his bride with the eager eyes 
Of one who wanders in Paradise, 
And he thought what a sweet, sweet thing and 

strange 
Was her constant, but never inconstant, change: 
Laughing, dancing, singing, blessing, 



Philip 1 99 

Helping, kissing and caressing, 
True and tender love confessing, 

Evermore — evermore ! 

But came a wrathful and rainy morn. 

When pansies were purple and grass was 
green, 
And he found his beautiful bride foresworn 

And a hell of fire their hearts between; 
For change is written on sea and sod 
And sky by the great, white hand of God, 
But nothing is more inconstant than 
The heart of woman or heart of man: 

Loving, thrilling, praying, yearning. 
Crying, pleading, calling, burning, 
Cursing, hissing, hating, spurning, 

Evermore — evermore ! 



PHILIP 

Forgive thee, Philip? When the love slain by 
thy barbed speech 
Shall rise from its red blood and live within 
my life once more, 
Mayhap my heart will then relent — my hand 
to thine will reach — 

But not before. 

Forgive? When my poor, perished hopes shall 
blossom in the dust 
Where thou didst trample them that day, 
mayhap my weak soul will 
Receive thy traitor-kisses with the old, mad, 
reckless trust — 

But not until. 



200 Philip 

A dead love is forever dead: no seraph can 
unseal 
Its sepulcher — nor God himself give back its 
vanished fire; 
Its lost hopes are forever lost — no future can 
make real 

Their sweet desire. 

I loved thee with a love that gave the second 
place to God, 
I held thy breast unto ni}- breast, thy cheek 
unto my cheek, 
I knelt and kissed the very dust whereon thy 
feet had trod, 

For I was weak; 

Yet, knowing that through flood and flame for 
thee I'd gladly go, 
And knowing that with soul and sense I blind- 
ly worshiped thee — 
Thou, with a traitor-hand, didst strike at me 
a deadly blow — 

Philip — at me! 

Forgive thee, Philip! I will not forgive thee! 
It is sworn! 
Nor will I lure thee with a lie to please thy 
perjured heart; 
I hate thee with a burning hate, and scorn 
with blasting scorn! 

Depart — depart! 



IN AUGUST 



O, that August dawn! 

O, that August dawn! 
How the sunfire sparkled on lake and lawn! 
How the roses seemed drooping to kiss thy 

feet 
As we went through the greenwood glad, my 

sweet! 
How the lark went winging and warbling there» 
Till lost at last in the argent air! 
And, looking down in thine eyes divine, 
I felt that forever thy thoughts were mine. 

O, that August day! 

O, that August day! 
The sea in its splendor spread away 
And away, till it vanished in vivid space 
On shores of glory and shoals of grace; 
While blended in one was thy spirit then 
With mine in communion beyond our ken; 
But looking down in thine e3'es divine 
I knew that forever thy heart was mine. 

O, that August dusk! 

O, that August dusk! 
All subtle with scent of myrrh and musk, 
And shaken with bulbul songs that beat 
In silvery strains through their dim retreat, 
And brave with the beauty of stars that shone 
With a lusterful loveliness all their own; 
And looking down in thine eyes divine 
I felt that forever thy self was mine. 
20 1 



202 To a Dear^ Dead Friend 

O, that August tide! 

O, that August tide! 
When I was blest, for thou wert my bride; 
But it brought me bale as it brought me bliss, 
For a poor, vain, fugitive life is this, 
And ere that enchanted moon had fled 
Thou wert lying dead — thou wert lying dead. 

O, the August sun! 

O, the August sun! 
Its splendor into our sphere is spun, 
And the August flowers are all aflame 
With ravishing dyes that I cannot name, 
And the August melody, balm and joy, 
Once more the soul and the senses cloy. 
But I am dead to their touch divine 
As I kneel in tears at thy tranceful shrine. 

O, the August hour! 

O, the August hour! 
Beyond the pale and beyond the power 
Of mold and mortality, when I 
Shall kiss and shall clasp thee by and byl 
Is it a dream? Will it dawn for me— 
That hour the living may never see, 
When I can look in thine eyes divine 
And know that forever thy soul is mine? 



TO A DEAR, DEAD FRIEND 

"No years to be, 
No change from me, 
Thy memory can sever." 

Valley-dimpled in the distance stretch the 
stalwart mountain-lines, 



To a Dear, Dead Friend 



203 



Glorified by sunset-splendors, garlanded by 

plumy pines; 
Sheer below, within the purple and the pause 

of twilight tide, 
Spread the silent fields, far-reaching to the 

forests wild and wide — 
Spread the silent fields, where cattle browse 

beside the saffron stream, 
Where, in gold and green transplendent, the 

triumphant harvests teem; 
Where the flowers flash with beauties, borrowed 

from the sky and sun 
And by many a subtle process in their shining 

petals spun; 
Where the dim and dusty highway through the 

hedges dippeth down 
Past the pleasant old plantations, to the quaint 

and quiet town. 

Through and through my lattice tangled, burn 

and shine the scarlet blooms, 
Trembling with their bold, strange beauty, 

tingling with their sweet perfumes; 
Now and then the soft winds smite them, and 

their spicy petals spill 
On the open book that thrills me as no other 

book can thrill — 
Book wherein a grand old master, moldering 

now within his grave. 
Sets the whole, broad world and heaven to 

a high, victorious stave. 

But the miracle and marvel of the sunland 

swimming there, 
With its glor}^ and its garlands, vanishes in 

viewless air — 
With its glory and its gladness, though the 

twilight splendors still 



204 To a Dear, Dead Friend 

Paint and plash the magic mountains where 

the creamy cascades spill; 
Still the soft winds smite the flowers, and their 

fragrant petals fall 
On the poems of the poet who has held me in 

his thrall; 
But the magic spell is broken, and the book 

falls from my knee, 
As across the cliffs and lowlands of our lovely 

Tennessee, 
Through the hush and through the half-light, fly 

my faithful thoughts to thee. 

Before I saw thee, Avery, I knew I'd like thee 
well — 
I like whoever speeds a spear for Reason 
and for Right, 
Who leads humanity to break the brutalizing 
spell 
Ot prince and priest, and grandly march into 
the white, glad light. 

I knew thou wert in line and one with all who 
dare defy 
A crowned, and mailed, and sceptered wrong 
— whatever that wrong may be, 
Who own no master here below, no master in 
the sky, 
And who would break all bars and gyves, 
and bid the bond go free. 

I knew I'd like, thee, Avery, before I saw thy 
face, ^ 
But when at last I came within the magic of 
thy spell. 
And saw thy life in all its light — its grand and 
simple grace — 
I came to love thee with a love my tongue 
can never tell. 



To a Dear, Dead Friend 205 

I often could not hear thy words for looking 
in thine e3es — 
They flashed a deeper depth of thought than 
any form of speech, 
And often in our rougher moods I tempered 
my replies, 
Because thy tones had meaning that thy lan- 
guage did not reach; 

Because I knew in all the world, in all the 
suns to be, 
Search where I might, or far or near, I nev- 
ermore would know 
As true a friend, O, Avery! as tender a friend 
as thee, 
This side the dim, green place of rest, where 
white grave-roses blow! 

For thou didst take me to thy heart—didst 
take me by the hand — 
When friends of fairer days turned false, and 
hissed me down with hate, 
And when I found my castles had been built 
upon the sand. 
And stormy waves had dashed and left their 
splendors desolate. 

Mayhap, O, Avery! mayhap, the moons will 
wax and wane, 
And wax and wane a hundred times, within 
the secret skies, 
And sear our hearts with passion-fires, and scar 
our hearts with pain 
Unspeakable, before we look within each 
other's eyes; 

The frosts and flowers of long, long years our 
lives may lie between, 



2o6 To a Dear, Dead Friend 

The lights on many a marriage-shrine may 

flash and fade away, 
And the lily-bells may blossom, and the grasses 

quiver green 
Upon the tomb of many a friend before that 

distant day; 

And seas all starry-isled may break between thy 
way and mine, 
Gray cliffs and green champaigns may lie be- 
tween our severed lands, 
Above us alien skies may bend, and stranger 
stars may shine 
Upon our parted paths before we clasp each 
other's hands. 

And mayhap, Avery, mayhap, we nevermore 
will meet 
In all the circling cycles that the awful ages 
hold, 
For death may step between us, and it is a 
dream too sweet — 
That grand, all-hail Hereafter, far beyond 
the graveyard mold. 

But yet whatever may befall — though moons 
and miles may part, 
Though buds may blow and grasses grow be- 
tween thy face and mine — 
The love for thee shall leal be forever in my 
heart, 
And all its best impulses shall be thine — 
and only thine. 

Thou hadst a subtle influence thou never yet 
hast known 
Upon my life, for when we met, so darft was 
my despair. 



To a Dear, Dead Friend 207 

That all the aspirations from my stormy soul 
had flown, 
And only stony Sorrow, with her ruined 
dreams, was there; 

But to feel I had the friendship of a great, 
good heart like thine. 
Was a promise and a prophecy of better 
things to be — 
A radiant revelation that mayhap this life of 
mine 
Would broaden into brighter ways, and 
worthier of thee; 

And if I strike upon my harp a chord that yet 
shall ring 
Responsive in the breasts of men; or if an 
occult flame 
Shall touch my pen until its thoughts through 
all the world shall wing. 
To thee, O, Avery I to thee, will I trace back 
my fame! 

Thou wert my inspiration, and thou wilt for- 
ever be, 
O, tenderest friend man ever had, and truest 
friend of mine, 
And every canticle I sing, I consecrate to thee, 
With all the love of all a life that is forever 
thine. 



THE LIGHT OF LIFE 

(inscribed to GORDON L. SNEED.) 

Through the magical lights loom the Cumber- 
land mountains, 
Clear-cut on the opaline sky-line away, 
While down from their heights dash and thun- 
der the fountains 
That blossom and break into silvery spray! 

Below, the glad gardens in sunlight are swim- 
ming 
Through all the glad sweep of the summery 
hours, 
And wide-waving forests are blissfully brim- 
ming 
With lyrics of linnets and fire of flowers! 

But, O! my heart turns to the beautiful places 

Away, far away in the passionate past, 
And, O! my heart yearns for the beautiful faces 
That haunt my lost hours, and will to the 
last. 
***** 

And when o'er purple sunset seas 
The old day sadly drifts afar 
I watch the first, faint, yellow star 

Shine through the semi-tropic trees, 

I think of those who loved me here. 
And marvel will I clasp their hands 
Once more within these lower lands, 

Or in some vague, mysterious sphere. 

I see the light of laughing eyes, 

And hear the tender tones once more 
208 



The Light of Life 209 

That thrilled me in the years of yore, 
Like a lost song from Paradise! 

When I look back upon those hours, 
They hold me with a subtle spell — 
Wherever their soft foot-prints fell 

Bright blossom fair, supernal flowers. 

We never know a happiness, 
Until it layeth stark and sweet 
Within its white, white winding-sheet, 

Beyond the power our paths to bless. 

O, friends, wherever ye may be 
Within this weary world to-day — 
In gilded cities far away 

Or greenwoods mirrored by the sea — -- 

Think not ye are forgotten yet. 
For, till my pulses cease to beat, 
Thy lives so gracious, pure and sweet, 

My heart will nevermore forget; 

And thou, for whom my harp is strung 
Upon these mountain-heights to-day, 
Know that the love will live for aye 

That from our brief acquaintance sprung. 

I love thy liberal mind — it takes 

No swift misjudgments from the crowd; 
But of itself, all pure and proud. 

Its own and honest verdict makes. 

Won was I by thy wit, but more, 

Won by thy words of friendship warm 
That took my very heart by storm 

Within the summer that is o'er; 

And if within the years to be 
One act or utterance of mine 



14 



2 1 o Ulalie 

Can lighten any load of thine 
I pray that thou wilt call to me; 

For if I held it in my power 

O'er thee the bluest skies should bend 
Undarkened to the last, O, friend! 

By any storms that ever lower. 

The roses with their hearts of fire 
Should stoop and kiss thy very feet, 
And life with rapture be replete 

In every fond dream and desire. 

Out of the passions and the strife 

And hatreds crowding round my way, 
Confronting me from day to day, 

I find the one sweet light of life 

In knowing that I have a crown 

In fond and faithful hearts that dare 
Defend me from the spear and snare 

Of devil-foes who hunt me down ; 

And knowing that I have a place 
In true and tender hearts like thine 
Has glorified this life of mine 

With one sweet attribute of grace! 



ULALIE 

Severed, O, Lord! the silver cord that bound 

her unto life! 
In white samite she sleeps to-night who should 

have been my wife. 



Ulalie 2 1 1 

O, Vasey Vane, beyond the main in tears and 

sackcloth bow — 
The saintly maid thy wiles betrayed is pale 

and pulseless now. 
From sneer and fleer to the starry sphere of 

Christ who was crucified 
She passed away but yesterday, and now she 

is my bride. 
Aye! ashes spread upon thy head for murdered 

Ulalie, 
Yet, O, forgiven by man and heaven thou 

canst not hope to be — 
For though forgiven by man, yet heaven will 

be avenged on thee! 

I was a thrall of Sedgewood Hall, thou wert a 

prince of pride, 
With stores of gold and slaves untold and fair 

possessions wide; 
Yet I was blest, for she confessed her love at 

last for me; 
Yet I was banned, for, O! her hand her father 

pledged to thee. 
Wo worth that hour! Wo worth thy power, 

that ever it should be! 
I seemed to trace upon her face a tender look 

of love, 
Reflected now from her rapt brow, white lily- 
crowned above! 
A look for me, and not for thee, false father 

of the dead! 
A look for me, and not for thee, to whom she 

vainly plead: 
Away! Away! Nor longer stay to weep her bier 

beside — 
She is not thine, but only mine— forevermore 

my bride ! 



212 Ulalie 



Kiss, sweetest, kiss me unto bliss — I twine 
within thy hair 

These lily flowers from bridal bowers — they 
make thee look more fair! 

Kiss, sweetest, kiss me unto bliss — I place up- 
on thy hand 

This bridal ring — now let us wing our way to 
distant land! 

Kiss, sweetest, kiss me unto bliss! — O, God, I 
do but rave! 

Within an hour my star and flower will lie 
within the grave! 



O'er pines and peaks the shrill wind shrieks, 

while up the wrinkled sands 
The haggard sea cries piteously and wrings 

and wrings its hands; 
The moon looks out from her redoubt within 

the scowling sk}^ 
What time the knell of passing-bell tolls 

from the chapel nigh. 
The mass is said, they bear the dead with sol- 
emn tread away, 
To sleep and sleep within its deep, dark home 

in churchyard cla}^, 
Until the last long trumpet blast upon the 

Judgment-day, 
And I am left of all bereft to walk my lonely 

way. 



THE BUGLE 

O, where, and O, where is the melody that 

rang 
From out thy throat, O, bugle! in the battle 

clash and clang — 
The fanfaron — the fanfaron that grandly swept 

and soared 
While mangled men were shrieking and the 

thunder-guns uproared? 

O, where, and O, where are thy strains that 
swept afar, 

O'er dimpled cliffs and dewy coombs unto the 
morning-star, 

As hounds and huntsmen followed where the 
Lord of Lisle led, 

And gave thy golden throat a tongue before 
his arrow sped? 

O, where, and O, where are thy many change- 
ful lays 

That woke the magic echoes in those old me- 
morial days — 

Thy victor-blasts in battle on the wariields of 
old France, 

Thy joy-peals at the merry chase and revelry 
and dance? 

Thy soft notes, thy sweet notes, when bridal- 
feast was spread. 

Thy weird and wailing threnody that throbbed 
beside the dead, 

Thy glad peal of thanksgiving that went ting- 
ling through the morn 

When to the proud young Lord of Lisle a bon- 
ny heir was born? 
^13 



214 "^^^^ Bugle 

O, where, and O, where hath thy music fled 

to-day? 
O, hath it passed forever from the universe 

away? 
Or through the circling cycles doth it wide 

and wider sweep, 
And sing and surge forever on from purple 

deep to deep? 

"It sings and it surges," the scientist replies, 
"Beyond the blue horizon's rim, beyond the 

furthest skies, 
Through all the countless centuries until the 

end shall be. 
And not one note shall perish from its perfect 

harmony. " 

Then, O, and then, O, as its free strains float 

afar. 
In mystic melody they break on many a bloom- 
ing star, 
And the people, yes, the people in those 

strange, unspoken spheres, 
May hear the music heard on earth within the 

ancient years. 
O, bugle! O, bugle! upon the castle wall, 
The men who lent thy lips their fire are 

stretched beneath the pall; 
And never will thy golden throat possess a 

tongue again. 
And never will thy torn lips thrill the blood of 

mortal men. 

Yet, bugle, O, bugle! though we may not dis- 
cern 

The strange truth and subtle truth, thy influ- 
ence eterne 



The Bugle 215 

Hath changed the very universe by starting on 

their way 
Chime after chime of melody to surge and 

surge for aye. 

Thus, bugle, O, bugle! my voice will never 
die, 

And all the words I ever spake are sounding 
in the sky, 

And they will sound forever on when I am ly- 
ing low 

Within the tongueless silence of the sleep we 
all will know. 

The lip-words, the lip-words and passion- 
words that tell 

The loving or the loathing thoughts that deep 
within me dwell; 

All these will sweep and circle on throughout 
infinity, 

And thus am I immortal, though no after-life 
there be. 

Immortal! Immortal! But what if I shall rise 
From underneath the roses after Samael seals 

mine eyes. 
And stand before a judgment-bar what time 

my words proclaim 
To all the hosts of all the worlds my glory or 

my shame? 



ULRIC 

This night, out-looking through my lattice-bars, 
I see the pale procession of the stars, 

And hear the waters of the restless sea 
Roll up the sands with slow, pulsating jars. 

The landscape lies in a mysterious trance — 
The gray peaks glimmer and the green leaves 
glance 
In the white moon-rays, while the vale below 
A shadow vast and melancholy haunts. 

Upon a ledge, beyond that gulf of gloom, 
The village lights burst into silver bloom. 
As iornly down the wan rim of the west 
Day vanishes with scarlet-streaming plume. 



I feel my spirit struggling with its chain, 
I feel the links unrivet that restrain 

Its folded pinions — paradise this night, 
This very night, the captive will regain. 

And I am hapuy — for no wailing wife. 
No clinging children hold me back to life, 

And make this time of death a time of dread. 
Instead of joyful calm that follows strife. 

I would not have a single faithful heart 
To break; I would not have a tear to start; 

I would not have a moan be made for me— 
Nay, none of these, as deathward I depart. 

I would not leave a heritage of woe, 

To those I love — to those who love me so — 

2X6 



Ulric 



217 



The thought would mock, the thought would 
madden me 
Upon the heights of heaven — this I know. 

Far better as it is; I pass away 

Into the golden light beyond the gray, 

Without one tie that knits me to my kind, 
Without one hope or fear to bid me stay; 

With no wan figures flying to and fro, 
Wringing their hands and mourning as they 

Crying to Christ, with wet, uplifted eyes. 
And agonizings to avert the blow. 

Instead, I hear the south wind softly stray 

In through my casement from the fields awa}^ — 

The fragrant fields of asphodel — I hear 
The bulbul singing low its sweetest lay; 

While tender memories come back to me 
Of a far time that nevermore will be, 

Of sounding forests by a shining flood. 
And fond young friends who walked the world 
with me. 

* * 

* 

The moments of my life are nearly told. 
I sink — I swoon — I waken to behold 
The faces of my lost, beloved ones, 
Long hidden by the violets and mold. 

Beyond the planets and the purple space 
They beckon to me from a palm-green place. 
Where seas of splendor roll, where upward 
rise 
The citadels of Christ in golden grace. 



2i8 Chicago 

And while I watch, the harp of Israel 
Sounds through the universe! — The charmed 
spell 
Of time is broken! — Friends, I come! I come! 

And with the brave knight Ulric it was well. 



CHICAGO 

Once in the dreams, the vast, vague dreams, 
of a singer strong, there came 
A vivid vision of unknown lands, over un- 
known leagues away; 
And Prophec}' fired his inner-soul with her own 
immortal flame. 
And made forecast of the miracles we realize 
to-day. 

He saw him the lands, new, marvelous, in the 

Wonder West; and, lo! 
They spread from the passionate zone of sun 

to the pulseless zone of snow 

And midway there were the plains where we 

Walk in our pride to-day; ; 
And the valleys of verdure fair and free, 
That swept to the sky away. 
To the jasper rim, 
Far, vast and dim. 
Of the splendorful sky away. 

He saw it just as it came from God 
In the glad, fresh-riiorning years, 



Chicago 219 

With never a grave in its soft, green sod, 
And never a trace of tears; 

And never a crime, with its trail of red 
Heart's blood on the blossoms there, 

And never a hiss of hate that sped 
To poison the sweet, pure air. 

But a soul was missing from cliff and scar, 
From the woodland and the wave; 

And the solitude — it was sadder far, 
Than is any grief or grave; 

For the voice of man was unknown — unknown 
As it trembled in tones of love 

And linked the land with the Glory-Throne 
Of God, in the Blue above. 

Unknown were the sacrifices high, 

Unselfish and true and sweet, 
That leadeth a man for his love to die 

In the dust at his loved one's feet. 

Unknown were all the impulses proud. 

Immaculate and sublime; 
The Honor that would prefer a shroud 

To a scepter that's bought with crime. 

Unknown the surrender that self hath made. 

The loyalty to a trust, 
That walks through the fierce flames unafraid 

For a cause that it knows is just. 

And hark! As the singer looks, his hand 

On his harp is laid, and he 
Smiting its strings, upsings a grand. 

Great song of a time to be: 

Hosanna! Lift up the bright palm branches 
higher, 



220 Agnosticism 

For man marches forward through flood and 

through fire, 
Till there, on those beautiful prairies untrod, 
He shall feel on his forehead the glory of God. 

His hand shall transfigure that wilderness till 
A City of Splendor, with progress athrill, 
Like magic shall rise, and its radiant birth 
Be a tale that is uttered all over the earth. 

Its light shall sweep onward and out through 

the world, 
Till the last chain is broken and battle-flag 

furled. 
And Liberty rules in all realms, and the race 
Leaves the gutters and gloom for the glory and 

grace, 
And the serfs, as their equals, their sovereigns 

face. 

He hath passed to fields Elysian, 

He, the singer and the seer, 
But the City of his Vision — 

It is Here! 



AGNOSTIC ARGUMENTS 



All things are unreal, or probably all things are 
unreal; and that is agnosticism. — Huxley. 



AGNOSTICISM 

Agnostic: 

Let others bow at marble shrine 
Within the white cathedral's calm, 
And sing the penitential psalm, 

And quaff the red communion-wine; 

But never to your unseen King 

Will my proud spirit bend the knee 

221 



222 Agnosticism 

Until with mortal eyes I see 
An angel hovering on the wing, 

Or hear a melody divine 

Down-ringing through the purple skies, 
Or see the fronded palms that rise 

Where heaven's hills are said to shine. 

Priest : 

Vain child! Vain, boastful child! The day 
That comes to all will come to thee, 
And thou wilt quickly summon me 

For thy blind, struggling soul to pray. 

Agnostic: 

Your God has said his law shall be 
Fixed and inflexible — shall last 
Until the endless end is past, 

And yet you boldly hint to me 

That when my light of life shall burn 
• Low in the socket, by a strange 

And priestly power you may change 
Fulfillment of his laws eterne. 

Priest: 

Nay, nay! Not I. But if a soul 
Repents of folly, sin and crime, 
Though hovering on the verge of time, 

God may relent and make it whole. 

Agnostic: 

He may? So his decrees divine 

Are what he says they are not? He 
May alter them for you or me 
At a weak word of yours or mine? 

Priest: 

Thy quibble, sir, is crude and trite — 



Agnosticism 223 

Agnostic: — 

But never has been answered yet; 
Pray clear it up, and you shall get 
A guinea for your church to-night. 

Priest: 

It was not meant that he should make 
His seeming inconsistency 
Consistent unto thee or me — 

Agnostic: — 

A most convenient cut to take! 

Priest : 

Rash one! O, rash, misguided one! 
Thy scoffing stings me for thy sake, 
Thou must thy peace with heaven make, 

Or be forevermore undone! 

Agnostic: 

O, Justice! Mercy! Love and Truth! 
You 'say I must believe or be 
Tormented through eternity! 

A very pretty plan, forsooth. 

A very pretty plan, for I 

Without the gift of faith was born; 

And hold in great, consummate scorn 
A thing that I believe a lie! 

My reason rises to proclaim 
Against your Bible. Shall I be 
Held guilty? Speak! Who gave to me 

The reason that rejects the same? 

Priest: 

Blind youth! Thy God gave unto thee 
Thy reason; but he likewise gave ^ 
His revelations, strong to save — 



224 Agnosticism 

Agnostic : — 

And still your two and two make three. 

I read the revelations. Then 

I read the rocks, the stars, the laws 
Pertaining to result and cause, 

And found myself at sea again. 

The stars cried out to me that they 
Had been belied by Bible-lore; 
The rocks told that the world was hoar 

With age in your Adamic days; 

Result said had there been a cause 
To drown our world, the water still 
Would kiss the very highest hill 

By all the plain, eternal laws. 

I read the revelations. There 

Troop men, who, if they lived to-day 
Would in our convict quarters lay 

Or from a scaffold swing in air. 

Their hands with human blood were wet, 
They held their slaves in galling gyves. 
Each had a harem full of wives, 

Each had a host of harlots, yet 

Your great God blessed their words and 
ways 
And sounded their exceeding worth 
In thunder-tones through all the earth, 

And lengthy drew he out their days. 

I read the revelations. There 

I found that God foreknows the fate 
Of every soul — its last estate, 

Its rapture or its mad despair; 

Yet, knowing this, he breathes the fire 
Of life into our nostrils; he 



Agnosticism 225 

Makes millions far too weak to flee 
The first demands of fierce desire; 

They 3neld, and as I sweep these flies 
From off my table does he sweep 
Into eternal hell, where leap 

Eternal flames, the great and wise 

And beautiful and strong and brave — 
And with this shining throng are hurled 
The lees and rinsings of the world — 

"A remnant only" will he save! 

Priest: 

O, son! O, mad. rebellious son! 
One fact thy sophistries will rend, 
We are free agents — 

Agnostic: — 

Christian friend, 
Thy logic is too loosel}^ spun. 

Your church shall have my house and land 
If you will harmonize for me 
Free-knowledge with free-agency, 

And I will join your Christian band. 

How can a man be free to take 
The right hand or the left, if God 
Foresaw the path that would be trod? 

Will he reverse it for our sake, 

And thereby demonstrate that he 
Did not foresee it, and thereby 
Prove his omniscience a lie? 

My Christian friend, it cannot be. 

Priest: 

Proud worm! thy blasphemy hath chilled 
My very blood; but I will pray 



226 Agnosticism 

For thy lost soul from day to day 
That with the truth it may be thrilled. 

Agnostic: 

Yet, O! what would that heaven be 
If when I stood within its calms, 
Beneath its bright, immortal palms 

The awful knowledge came to me 

That I would never any more 
Meet with a lost, beloved one, 
Who was my life, my joy, my sun. 

My all upon this lower shore; 

That even to the endless end 

He writhed within your hell, while I 
Upon the hills of heaven high 

To him no comfort sweet could send? 

Priest: 

Blind youth, the shrieks of those who fall 
Will sound as music in your ears 
And happier make the holy spheres, 

When we shall understand it all. 

Agnostic: 

It will? O, black, accursed thought! 
Let blank annihilation be 
My fate before my soul shall see 
This miracle upon it wrought! 

Rejoice to hear the cries of one 
I held in rapture to my heart. 
Who was of me a very part 

Before my mortal race was run? 

Far rather would I rush into 

The very fangs of hell, and there 
His agonies unending share 

Than prove to friendship so untrue. 



Agfiosfiiisfu 227 

Priest: 

Rejecting God and all that lies 
Beyond the grave-stone — 

Agnostic: — 

Hold, good sir! 
Although I am no worshiper 
Of things unseen within the skies, 

I nathless hold that there may be 
A Lord and Master of the spheres, 
Who guides the glory of the years 

And supervises you and me, 

I hold that we may live when earth 
From under us shall swing; but, lo. 
There is no jot of proof to show 

That we shall have a second birth. 

There never has a whisper sped 

From out the moonless mists that weep 
Forever o'er the clanging deep 

That crawleth outward with our dead; 

And as we grander knowledge gain 
The more distinctly we descry 
That nature gives your God the lie 

(Or vice versa) pat and plain. 

And thus I cast no horoscope 

Of what the future holds in store 
When all this hurly-burly's o'er; 

And, if my bosom holds a hope, 

It buds and blossoms from a strange 
And mystic feeling in my heart 
That mortal life is but a part 

Of a transcendent whole, whose range 



228 Why? 

Shall reach through endless aeons where 
Each soul, though cankered o'er with 

crime, 
May scale the highest heights sublime 

From out the depths of blank despair. 

A dream, mayhap, for every man 
Is more or less a fool, you know, 
Is swayed by folly to and fro. 

And has been since the world began. 



WHY? 

O, where is my little Lily? — 

My lost love, where is she? 
Will never a god or never a man in the uni- 
verse answer me? 

In the blossom years of my sweet, slain youth, 
on a morning hour like this, 

I pressed on her red, upreaching lips a pas- 
sionate farewell kiss; 

Then I watched her ship go sailing afar out 
over the golden rim. 

While a lark soared up from its low, green 
nest with a glad thanksgiving hymn; 

And the scent of the oleander-flowers was sweet 
on the summer air. 

And a serpent slid through the tangled grass 
and hissed at the glory there! 

O, where is my little Lily? — 
My lost love, where is she? 
Is she dead in the Sunland far away that she 
answereth not to me? 



Why? 229 

Does she sing on the high hill-crests of Christ, 
and lost in the rapture there, 

Has she forgotten the vows she spake on the 
beautiful cliffs of Clare, 

When a secret influence seemed to blend her 
soul and my soul in one, 

While we melted away in the ardent bliss of 
blossom and song and sun? 

Does she clang the fetters of hell to-day, and, 
lost in a last despair, 

H s she forgotten our bridal-kiss on the beau- 
tiful cliffs of Clare? 

Or does she sleep an unending sleep where the 
jasmine-flowers wave, 

And draw their color and flash and scent from 
her dead heart in the grave? 

Speak not, speak not of the bleeding God up- 
on that crudest tree! 
Speak not of His infinite love for man, of His 

infinite love for me I 
He has torn the heart from my bosom, He has 

trampled it under-feet, 
He has taken out of m\' life the life and the 

love that made it sweet; 
Then why should I thrill with a rapt delight 

when the tale of His love is told? 
Or why should I weep that the Roman spears 

were red with His blood of old? 
Why did He fashion me as He did — a being of 

flesh and fire. 
And dower me with the flower of love, and the 

flame of a sweet desire — 
And dower me with the flower of love to lay 

on a dead girl's breast, 
And the flame of a sweet desire to burn o'er 

the shrine where she lies at rest? 



IF I WERE GOD! 

Immortal should all of mortality be 

If I were God; 
Infinite all that is finite in thee, 

If I were God; 

The luminous lilies forever should shine, 

The golden grapes drip with a delicate wine, 

The red roses flame on the lush, trailing vine. 

If I were God. 

The song-birds should lilt in an evergreen 
bower, 

If I were God; 
And twitter and trill thro' an eveningless hour, 

If I were God; 
And never a leaf in the green forest gay 
Be borne from its bough, for no dark, wintry 

day, 
Nor black, thunder-tempests rise wild in our 
way, 

If I were God. 

Never a heart should be broken on earth, 

If I were God; 
Never a misery follow our mirth. 

If I were God; 
Never should longings be vile or vain, 
Never be pestilence, famine or chain. 
Never be poverty, farewells or pain. 
If I were God. 

The fires of friendship should faithfully burn, 

If I were God; 
Heart unto heart should unchangingly turn, 

Tf I were God; 

230 



Ruth 



231 



The senses should reel with the sweetest de- 
light, 
The rapturous passions of sin should be right, 
And law with the sunburst of liberty bright, 
If I were God. 

The dreams be fulfilled of the poets and sages, 

If I were God. 
And all the grand yearnings of infinite ages, 

If I were God; 
The march of Humanity, strong and sublime, 
Should ring with the footfalls of angels in 

rhyme, 
And Reason be regnant in every clime, 

If I were God. 



RUTH 

"Kenneth, hand my harp to me, 
I will set its spirit. free." 

Then she swept its strings, and I 

Saw a sweet song flash and fly — 
Flash from out the bannered room, 
Fly into the golden gloom, 

Far into the soundless sky, 
Till it came unto a star 
Where the lost who love us are; 

And I saw the glad, white gleam 
Of the asphodels, and there 
Was an angel bright and bare. 

Beautiful! The Christ may dream, 
But he cannot realize 

The fine splendor of the face. 



232 



Ruth 



Nor the glory of the eyes, 
Nor the strange, magnetic grace 
Of the* angel standing there 
Beautiful and bright and bare! 

Suddenly I saw him start 

With a swift and sad surprise 

Glowing in his guilty eyes. 
As the song fell on his heart, 

As it kissed his lips and sang — 

As it clasped his limbs and sang: 

The miracle-mornings come back to me 

As they came in the marvelous moons of old, 
With the same glad flash of the laughing sea. 

And the same green ferns in the laughing 
mold, 
With the same strange birds from the sunlands 
far, 

And the same blithe songs that we knew so 
well, 
With the same pure rays of our mystic star 

In the dewy heart of the lily-bell! 
Yes! All that I loved come back to me 

But I see them not through thy loving eyes: 
If their God were gone could the angels see 

The old same beauty in Paradise? 

O, Percy, my prince! if I only knew 

No seraph had stolen thy heart from me! 
But, ah I if the living are oft untrue. 

Who knows that the dead will truer be? 
Who knows? For, O! in that m3^stic star 

The women are fairer by far than I, 
And love with a passion intenser far 

Than the heart that died when it felt thee die. 
And, mayhap, I never will know the bliss 

That we knew in the blossomy Junes of old — 



If I Thought as You Think 233 

Thy darling clasp and thy dirling kiss, 
And the whisperless joy of a joy untold! 

A cloud crawled over the charmed-star 
Where the beautiful lost who love us are; 

A cry rang down through the golden gloom, 

A silence fell in the bannered room, 
The fountain plashed as it plashed before. 

The nightingale sang in the myrtle tree, 
A soul flashed out of the open door. 

And the world was a dead, waste world to me! 
I reeled to the side of the singer there — 

Dead — dead in the splendor and flush of 
youth ! 

"O, Ruth!'" I cried to her," O, my Ruth! " 
And I fell at her feet and I kissed her hair. 
And I laid my lips on her bosom bare; 

For, ah! I had loved her in vain while she 
Had loved a lover in Paradise: 

He was false to her — she was false to me — 
And a god sits up in the golden skies! 



IF I THOUGHT AS YOU THINK 

Why do you cling unto life, my brothers? — 

why do you cling unto life? I say — 
Why do you weep when the yoke and fetters 

of flesh from a dear friend drop away? 
You know this world is a House of Sorrow, 

you know this world is a House of Sin, 
That pain is the Dead Sea fruit of pleasure, 

and will be ever as it hath been. 
Why, then, cling unto life, when over the blue, 

transpicuous rim afar 



^34 * U ^ TJwught as Yon 'Iliink 

Shineth the walls of the Wondrous City where 

only blessings and blisses are? 
Why do you beat your hands with passion, 

and storm the sky with your plea and 

prayer, 
Whenever passes a stainless spirit forever out 

of your clasp and care? 
You say he goes to a glad, brave kingdom over 

a vague and voiceless sea, 
Where never a last good-bye is spoken and 

never and never a grave shall be, 
And where from rapture to perfect rapture with 

crown and lyre he soars and sings, 
The chrism of Christ upon his forehead, the 

glory of God upon his wings. 
If I thought as you think, my brothers, if' I 

believed in a better sphere 
Beyond the grass and the golden lilies that 

blossom over a dead man here, 
I would tingle with great, strange gladness 

whenever a friend of mine should die, 
I would robe him in festal raiment and I would 

kiss him a gay good-bye; 
And, O! when unto me comes the hour — the 

miracle-hour that comes to all — 
Never a cypress branch or blossom should throw 

its gloom on my gorgeous pall ; 
At my funeral should be dancing, and dainty 

feasting at festal board; 
Should be singing and jest and laughter and 

gurgle of wine in the glasses poured, 
And jubilant bells should rock the steeples 

when I was borne to the gay, bright 

grave. 
And rattle of drums and trill of trumpets blend 

in a glad thanksgiving stave! 



THE LAND OF FANCY-FREE 

Beyond the Hills Delectable — wherever they 
may be — 
And far beyond the moon-down, the sun- 
down and the mist, 
In sempiternal beauty lies the Land of Fancy- 
Free, 
And thither go my gladdest Thoughts to hold 
their happy tryst. 
But how they go and when they go I'm sure I 
cannot say, 
For quicker than the flicker of a star-fiash 
they are there, 
Where fields of golden lilies spread to creamy 
cliffs away, 
And foam of yellow sunbeams bubble in the 
roses rare; 
And there they dance and revel over flower- 
bells and ferns, 
And bump against the butterflies that flitter 
to and fro. 
And drink from honeysuckle cup the dew that 
in it burns, 
And help the blithe, capricious wind her 
bugle-horn to blow. 
They whistle with the mocking-bird a merry, 
madsome lay, 
And ride upon the thistle-down a waltzing up 
the air, 
And slide upon the gossamers that dangle from 
the spray, 
And tumble with the bumble-bees o'er brid^' 
blossoms fair. 

235 



236 The Land of Fancy- Free 

O, Land of Fancy-Free, O, Land of Fancy- 

Free! 
O, sunny, funny, joll}', folly Land of 

Fancy-Free! 
O, whether Fm a-waking or asleep, away 

from me 
My thoughts oft go a-trooping with their 

golden harps to thee! 

Hark! Suddenly they hear a lyre upringing to 
the sk}^, 
Another and another chime in the chorus 
strong, 
And, lo! the laureled singers of the centuries 
sweep by, 
And all the Land of Fancy-Free is quivering 
with song! 

And now my Thoughts with rapture unspeaka- 
ble uprise', 
And gaze upon the godlike brow of Homer 
as he sings, 
And search the searchless deeps divine of 
Shakespeare's shining eyes. 
And hear the tranceful tones of Foe — the Poet- 
king of kings! 
O, Land of Fancy-Free! O, Land of Fancy- 
Free! 
O, glorious, victorious, glad Land of 

Fancy-Free! 
O, all the grand and gifted who have been 

and who will be. 
Will sing and soar forever in the Land of 
Fancy-Free! 
***** 

The poets pass; through soul and sense there 
leap electric thrills 



TJie r.and cf Fiincv Ft\ 



237 



Of rapt delight: my Thoughts forget the 
tears that I have wept, 
As softly o'er the sapphire rim and down the 
shining hills 
Troop all my glorious, sweet friends who in 
the grave have slept; 
And O, the highest height of heaven is less 
transplendent far 
Unto my Thoughts than is the fair, fresh 
Land of Fanc\'-Free, 
As through the sylvan valleys, over purple cliff 
and scar 
They walk in company with those who were 
the world to me. 
The wreaths of locust-blossoms bend above 
them as they pass, 
And down the rays of sunlight trickle bird- 
songs from the air, 
And daisies white and dew-drops bright are 
laughing in the grass, 
And all the ecstasies of earth are blent with 
heaven there! 
O, Land of Fancy-Freel O, Land of Fancy- 
Free! 
O, kissful, blissful, olden, golden Land of 

Fancy-Free! 
If in the timeless Time afar an After-life 

there be, 
O, may my soul its pinions plume and 
soar away to thee! 

If I must live forever, let me live where sense 

hath part 
With the spirit in the blessings that shall 

blossom for my heart; 
If I must live forever, let me live where I will 

know 



238 The Land of Fancy- Free 

My friends — and know them as they were with- 
in these lands below — 
With all the fire and sweet desire that thrilled 

them here below, . 
Without one change that will estrange the 

earthly ties of old, 
Before the funeral-hymn was sung, the funeral- 
bell was tolled. 
If I must live forever, let me live where I will 

find 
The gifted men and women whom no priestly 

gyves could bind, 
For though their garments trailed in sin, their 

genius broke the spell 
That held the masses captive in the mediaeval 

hell, 
And gave to voiceless thoughts a tongue, to 

nerveless swords a flame. 
And led the legions on and up from servitude 
and shame. 
If I must live forever, O! let that forever 

be 
A jocund, joyful, jolly life in Land of 

Fancy-Free! 
No walled and gated, golden-plated Para- 
dise for me, 
Where all the pious feather-pates and 
Puritans will be; 

No, none of that for me! — no, none of that for 

me! 
But the blessings and caressings of the Land 

of Fancy-Free; 
Where we will hold communion high upon 

a common plane 
With old Voltaire and Ingersoll, with Shelley 

and Tom Paine; 



Questionings 239 

Hear Byron's matchless timbrel ring against 

all sham and shames, 
And see the Heretics who died in the devour- 
ing flames; 
Keep step in time with Washington and grand» 

old Robert Lee, 
And all the Rebels of the world in land of 
Fancy-Free! 
O, Land of Fancy-Free! O, Land of Fancy- 
Free! 
Where never is a prison-house, nor chain, 

nor scaffold-tree! 
Where thought and deed and sweet desire 

forever shall be free. 
And every dream of soul and sense reality 
shall be! 



QUESTIONINGS 

I wonder when the spirit 

Leaves the flesh and bone that bound 
To the passions of our planet 
And the raptures of our race, 
If it sees its poor, lost bod}^ 

With the loving arms around it; 
If it quivers with the kisses 
On the pure and pallid face' 

I wonder if it listens 

To the praises of the pastor; 

Hears him say the dead has risen 
To the Sunland of the Soul, 
While it knows the secret sinnings 



240 Questioning^s 

Of the thing that was its master 

Rise with flaming swords to drive it 
From the glory and the goal! 

I wonder if it watches 

Till it sees the dead forgotten — 
Sees new friends usurp the favor 
Of the hearts that were its own ; 
If it looks below the daisies 

Where the grave-worm is begotten — 
Where the eyeless skull is grinning 
At a jest to us unknown! 

I wonder if the truth is 

That the spirit can remember 

All its pains and all its passions, 
All its terrors and its tears, 
Stealing swiftly on its vivid 
Summer visions, as November 

Crashes down in storm and darkness 
On the splendor of the years I 

No! ah, no! Far better for us 
That we die, and die forever — 
That we slip into the shadows 
And the silences eterne, 
Than be hunted down and haunted, 
When the soul and sense dissever. 
With the memories that mock us 
In this lower life inferne! 



BASIL 

I bring you, Basil, a dewy rose 
From under the Mississippi skies, 
As sweet as the strange, sweet breath that 
blows 
O'er the glory-gardens of Paradise; 

"As red as the red, bright blood that crept 
To the face of Margery, flower-fair, 

When close to your hot, young heart she 
slept — 
Her bright hair tangled within your hair. 

"It bloomed from her bosom, and its hue 
Was sucked from her dead heart in the 
dust — 
A heart whose every throb was true, 
Till you, O, Basil! betrayed its trust!" 
* * * _ ijj * 

Heigh-ho! old fellow, the dead is dead — 
The past is past. There is no return, 

And what is a rose from a wormy bed, 

Though its leaves with the blood of a lover 
burn? 

A trifle — for human clay is clay, 

And men and women are nothing more 

Than creatures that crawl through a little day. 
And die when that little day is o'er. 

The beautiful bird, upsoaring there, 

Knows every passion a king can know — 

He has mourned his mate with a dumb de- 
spair, 
And yet we pity him not — 0,no! 
i6 241 



242 Basil 

He tingles with love and lust, has known 
The hissing hate of a human heart, 

Would bravely die to defend his own — 
In all things proving our counterpart; 

And yet the ball from your rifle sings, 

And the poor thing drops to the daisied sod- 

A quiver sharp of its soft, white wings, 
And its innocent life goes back to God. 

Well! it was made for your bullet, just 
As my dead girl under the old rose-tree 

Was made for me from the fire and dust 
To die from the fire and dust of me! 

I hold that whatever is, is wrong; 

If there was no God in his glory-sphere, 
The sin that is sinewy and strong 

Would never revel and riot here. 

If there was no life there would be no lust, 
No daggers red with the blood of men; 

No treason unto a tender trust, 
Nor chain, nor scaffold, nor prison pen; 

Nor arrow speeding through amber skies, 
To cleave a caroling heart in twain. 

No tiger-beasts with their burning eyes, 
To suck the blood from a pulsing vein. 

But I was brought to this ball of mud, 
That swings in the interstellar skies. 

The flame of passion within my blood, 
And sweet temptations before mine eyes. 

My very strength was a spur to sin, 

And the God up there in the golden sky 

Had set the toils -if I tumbled in 
Who was to blame for it — he or I? 



The Neiv Sermon 243 

But life will leave us, and we become 
A handful of dust in this flying star, 

Buried forever in darkness dumb, 
Just as the serpents that sting us are 

What will I know of my treason then? 

What does she know of my treason now? 
What does she know of that old day when 

I lightly laughed at my ring and vow? 

Nothing, old fellow, and when I die, 

And the grass of an hundred years is green, 

Nobody living will know that I 

Have been to-day or have ever been; 

And nobody dead will ever know 

That Margery fell through her trust in me — 
And the suns will go and the suns will glow, 

Though the dead girl blooms in the old rose- 
tree. 

Heigh-ho! old fellow, your scruples bring 
A smile to this sunny heart of mine; 

Fling down the rose! — 'Tis a trifling thing — 
And fill you a beaker brave with wine. 

We will drink to the things divine that be, 
To the diamond mornings we still enjoy. 

To the flowery sod and the foaming sea, 
And the lovely women who live, my boy! 



THE NEW SERMON 

O! long hath the white bridal-altar 
To thee been a glittering goal, 



244 The New Sermon 

Though hobble its pledges and halter 
And harry and hamper the soul; 

O, higher thy aim, and O! higher 
Thy object in living should be, 

For dust is the wage of desire, 
And death its decree! 

Then spurn it, and turn from its pathway 

Of quicksands, though brilliant with 
blooms, 
At the last ye will find it a wrath-way 

Of curses, or hearses and tombs. 
Though the crimes that be crimson and 
carnal 

The babes on thy bosom forego, 
They will lie at the last in a charnel, 

All lampless and low. 

This life is a tragedy ever, 

But over its awfulest years 
There shineth a glory that never 

Goes out in a tempest of tears; 
There be that will nevermore perish 

The beautiful, good and the true, 
And these be the things ye should cherish. 

While sense ye subdue. 

O! rare will our lasting reward be, 

And reach o'er the rim of the tomb. 
And never by shame, nor by sword, be 

Despoiled, nor cut down in its bloom; 
While ye who are led by the lying, 

Sweet lures of the sense, will be left 
Over many a coffin-lid crying, 

"Bereaved and bereft!" 



PER CASTRA AD ASTRA 

"Per castra ad astra" — through camps to the 
stars — 
Ran the demagogue legend of old: 
It glowed on the banners borne forth to the 
wars 
By the soldiers believing and bold. 

When torn by the spears of the truculent foe, 
And trampled by hoof and by heel, 

They were taught that their glorified spirits 
would go 
Straightway to the Land of the Leal. 

Poor dupes of proud devils! They thought if 
they gave 
Of their blood to the glory of kings 
They would sweep forth, transfigured, from out 
of the grave 
With a flash of white, fluttering wings! 

"Per castra ad astra" — the lie has come down 
Through cycles and conquests unknown ; 

And still it stirs men to march forth for the 
crown, 
And with bayonets prop up the throne; 

And still it stirs many to barter the bloom 
And the song and the sunlight of time, 

For the hope of a blessing beyond the bleak 
tomb 
In a vague and invisible clime; 

To stifle the lyric that leaps from the heart, 
And to turn from the waltzers away, 
243 



246 Per Castra ad Astra 

Though thrilling and tingling to share in a 
part 
Of the merriment gladsome and gay; 

To shrink from a present and palpable bliss 

And many a blessing benign; 
To flee from the sweet, cunning lips that would 
• kiss, 

And the ripe, rosy sparkle of wine. 

Yes, they hiss down the flesh and its every 
delight. 

And they dream the denial will buy 
A lily-hung harp and a diadem bright 

In a possible sphere in the sky. 

01 pity the Puritan friar and nun, 

Who crucify sense for the soul; 
Who tread upon thistles while under the sun. 

And quaff of the bitterest bowl. 

O! pity the martyrs, wherever they are, 

Who sacrifice happiness here; 
Who boast of the pleasures they mangle and 
mar 

In their wrath on the altars they rear; 

For the grave-worms are cruel, the grave-clods 
are chill, 
And a dream is uncertain at best; 
Then laugh and make merry, my lads, with a 
will. 
While the passions pulse high in the breast; 

Nor trade off the glorious things that you hold 
In the grip of your palms for a prize 

That may vanish forever away when the mold 
Sets its seal on your beautiful eyes. 



U7i fulfilled 247 

Be good to yourselves, and be good unto all 
Who travel your way to the tomb, 

And reach out wherever your foot-prints may 
fall 
For all of the roses that bloom. 

Seek the glad, whitest glory of starlight and 
sun, 

And when it is lost in the night 
Let your hearts bubble over with frolic and fun 

Where the festival tires burn bright. 

Kiss the lips that may offer, and kiss them 
once more, 
And join in the shout and the song, 
And drink of the dew that the wine-presses 
pour, 
And jest as you journey along. 

"Per castra ad astra" may do for the clown, 

But never for you or for me, 
Till a dead man or woman from heaven wings 
down 

And points up a path we can see! 



UNFULFILLED 

Once in my far, fresh morning years I dreamed 

of a day to be. 
When out of the infinite inner soul a passion 

would come to me, 
As the dayspring comes to tlie dreary world, as 

the blossom to the tree. 



248 Unfulfilled 

When the one sweet soul of all other souls 
would certainly find my own. 

When the one true heart of all other hearts 
would certainly find my own, 

And never again in all the world would I wan- 
der its ways alone. 

O! I was a boy in that bright, old time, that 

seems like a dream to-day; 
That seems like the dream of an alien life, in 

an alien land away; 
A land in a star, in an orbit far, where gods 

in their glory stay. 

Yes, I was a boy, and I thought our life was 

a beautiful life — ah, me! 
The gilding drops from our gods divine, and 

the terrible truth we see, 
That our world is a world of rot and dust — no 

matter how fair it be! 

A touch of time in my raven hair, yet never 

the one rare thrill 
Went out from my heart to another heart, and 

I know that it never will. 
For age is coming apace, alack! and, oh! it is 

calmly chill. 

Under a green magnolia tent, in the golden 

moon-rays, I 
Saw the ghost of myself, one nameless night, 

in a summer that has swept by; 
Saw the ghost of my old, old self, and I sank 

to the sod with a low, quick cry; 

For I stood before me just as I was in the 

sparkle and bloom of life, 
Before I had broken my battle sword in its 

cruel, uncanny strife, 



Unfulfilled 249 

Flushed with a rosy, immortal hope — instinct 
with a radiant life! 

The vision vanished, but oh! the dull, mad 

pain that it left with me. 
As I thought of the thoughtless and thrillant 

boy — the boy who had once been me! 
He was dead with all of his hopes divine — the 

boy who had once been me! 

'Twixt my life that is, and m}^ life that was, 
are the roses and frost of time. 

The gods dethroned that I worshiped once, 
and festered with serpent slime, 

The shrines despoiled where I brought my 
flowers in that old, old folly time. 

'Twixt my life that is, and my life that was, 

is many a green, low grave 
That marks the place where I bade good bye 

to che beautiful and the brave: 
Ah! the whole wide universe centers at last 

in the grave — in the cruel grave! 

On through the empty and awful years I go 

where we all must go; 
Back of me blossom the fairest fields that my 

feet will ever know — 
Still here and yonder a star shines out, or a 

cluster of lilies blow. 

Still here and there is a hand outreached, and 

a kind voice calls to me. 
And a gleam of the olden glory falls like a flash 

on the sod and sea, 
And my heart goes out with a glad, sweet throb 

to thee and to friends like thee! 



WHAT WILL IT MATTER? 

O! Fate is cruel, and Fate is cold, 
And only giveth a grave at last; 

And what is glory, or love, or gold, 
When this brief hour is overpast? 

What doth it matter us how we live? 

What doth it matter us how we die! 
What can all of the future give 

When under the grassy clods we lie? 

What will it matter to you and me — 
Insensate there in immortal calm — 
Whether our funeral dirge shall be 
A reptile's hiss or a nation's psalm? 

A^hat will it matter us then, I say. 
Whether a kingly crown we wore, 

Whether we toiled from day to day, 

Or begged a pittance from door to door? 

What will it matter us then if we 

Kept our garments from things impure, 

Scattered our gold with a glad hand free, 
And walked in the strength of our worth 
secure; 

Or whether we wallowed in lies and lust, 
And washed our palms in the blood of 
men, 

And proved a traitor to every trust — 
What will it matter unto us then? 

Whether our friends were false or true, 
Whether our foes were strong or weak, 

What will it matter to me or you, 
After our candle is out? O, speak! 
250 



POEMS POLITICAL 



APOLOGIA 

In presenting the following poems to the public, in perma- 
nent form, the publisher is acting in direct disregard of the 
wishes of Mr. Kernan, who is anxious to let roses bloom where 
death-bolts fell in years of yore; but it would be utterly im- 
possible to comply with his wishes, and at the same time give 
a fully rounded conception of his character. The bitter par- 
tisan hatred that was unleashed against him while in the 
North, because of his pronounced Southern sentiment, became 
intensified when he removed to the South, and in the frenzy 
of an abnormally sensitive nature, he wrote what follows. 
The Mr. Kernan of today insists that the hates conceived of 
slavery are deader than the dead hatreds of Hannibal and his 
hosts. He holds that we have only a common country now, 
in which partisan strife is only necessary to keep the atmos- 
phere pure, clear and healthful. 



SOUTHLAND 

I 

O, Southland! loveliest land beneath the bright, 

blue-bending skies! 
O, land most passionate this side the gates of 

Paradise! 
A sense of gladness unconfined was mine when 

first I set 
My foot upon thy flowery sod: it lingers with 

me yet. 
I love thy immemorial hills by human kind 

untrod ; 
The rose-lights of their raptured heights 

touched by the kiss of God; 
The crash and wirble jubilant of cataracts that 

leap 
And fiash and shimmer through the vines that 

trail from steep to steep. 
I love thy valley-lands: they hold a beauty never 

sung, 
As sweet, as pure, as undefiled as when the 

world was young. 
As then the ripe, wild roses trail their scarlet 

mists of bloom. 
And sparkle sun-lit lily-bells with amber hearts 

illume; 
As then the rivers roil and surge, — proud, pas- 
sionate and free, 
Through sweeps of glad savanna-lands to kiss 

the golden sea. 
I love thy wild and waving woods where in the 

glooms of green 
The miracle magnolia-flowers like fallen moons 

are seen, 

253 



254 Southland 

Where mock-birds twitter, pipe and trill 

through long, resplendent days, 
Till leaf and flower seem to dance in rhythm 

with their lays! 
Cradle of Jefferson, Calhoun, and Davis — knight- 

liest one! 
Whose name, whose high, white name, will 

shine and circle with the sun 
Until humanity no more its wimortelles will 

twine, 
Nor offer up bright votive blood at Freedom's 

altar-shrine! 
O, land of roses and romance! of sunshine and 

of song! 
The Grand All-Hail Hereafter will avenge thy 

ruth and wrong; 
We can hear its portents thundering and see 

its flaming sign 
As pearls into a purer light a day that is divine. 
Down, faint hearts! down, false souls! at least 

this hour is not for thee. 
Nor this the place for recreants to crook the 

ready knee. 
Avaunt! nor thus insult our Faith, our Memo- 
ries, our Dead: 
Remember heroes trod the spot whereon this 

night we tread! 



Comrades! on these hills historic where up- 
flamed the battle-fire, 
Where upclashed keen swords to heaven in 
the dead and ruined years, 
A fierce, remorseless canticle rings leaping 
from my lyre, 
A strain that echoes hate with hate, and an- 
swers sneers with sneers. 



Southland 255 

III 

Out yonder sleep our sainted dead, — they died 
for you and me, 
Out yonder, underneath the bright crown- 
jewels of the sky: 
They fought because they loved our land; they 
fell to make us free; 
They hold in heaven this night the truths 
divine that never die. 

IV 

The same grand Truths that glorified our war- 
fiag when unfurled 
They bore it on from height to height against 
our ancient foe. 
What time their valor vivified, throughout the 
blue-ringed world, 
Afresh the awful host of men by tyrants tram- 
pled low — 



The Truths our Sires with b.„>ie-fires baptized 
in years of yore, 
When they rebelled against the Wrong high- 
throned beyond the sea, 
When they with bare, uplifted blades upon 
their altars swore. 
By Father, Son and Holy Ghost this goodly 
land to free. 

VI 

That oath was kept, and Liberty walked smil- 
ing through our land 
Sun-crowned, and blossoms fair upflowered 
where'er her footsteps fell; 



256 Southland 

Our peoplehood marched forward by a common 
feeling clanned 
To the sweet, world-shaking music of the 
Independence Bell. 

VII 

But a doom runs through the ages; it was 
never known to fail, 
In all the long-drawn cycles since our uni- 
verse began, 
That plotters shall conspire, and with brand 
and ball assail 
The liberties that beautify and bless their 
fellow-man. 

VIII 

In peril were our liberties — clanged high the 
tocsin peal — 
The star and flower of Chivalry uprose to 
face the foe — 
To face a countless foe that came to slaughter 
and to steal. 
And with the battle-torch to lay our dear, 
old roof-trees low. 

IX 

Our warriors were fired by all the Lord holds 
leal, 
By all that makes life beautiful, by all that 
makes men blessed, 
By that duty the divinest, to uphold the com- 
mon weal, 
And sacrifice the heart's red blood for broth- 
erhood oppressed. 



In the white, shining track of Lee — the Rupert 
of his race — 



Sonthland 257 

They followed with unflagging feet, prepared 

to dree and die, 
Through crash of shells, and storms of flame 

that smote them in the face, 
While high their glorious Rebel yell rang 

grandly up the sky: 

XI 

While high through blinding cannon smoke 
the Southern Cross upflung 
Its blazing folds, more terrible than battle- 
flag of Thor — 
While roared red-throated rifles, and the sabers 
slashed and swung 
To the wild, magnetic music of the thunder- 
drums of War. 

XII 

But there befell a tristful day: the Southern 
Cross went down 
Before the Hessian hirelings from every shore 
and sea, — 
The Hessian hirelings who iight for any flag 
or crown. 
And trample in the very dust the White 
Rose of the Free. 

XIII 

Then came our cruel Iliad of wraths and 
wrongs; we saw 
Our peoplehood deflowered of their birth- 
rights one by one. 
What time the vile victor made his Christless 
creed our law, 
And ruled our ruined Motherland with help 
of gyve and gun. 



258 Southland 

XIV 

O, Stonewall, by the clear calm streams of 
Paradise this night! 
O, Barksdale, falling where the liood of con- 
flict reddest rolled! 
O, Morgan, leading meteor-like thy cavalry in 
fight! 
O, Southern slain, or high or low, within 
the Gates of Gold! — 



No\> that our rights are repossessed, now that 
the foe has fled 
Beyond our borders, with the curse of crime 
upon his name — 
Answer! Shall we still bend the knee, and 
shall we bow the head 
Unto his crimeful code, and thus forever 
seal our shame? 

And from the Citadels of Christ — serene,- and 

fair, and bright, 
Their souls, communing with our souls, thus 

speak to us this night: 

By our Cause all grand and glorious, — 
Cause that yet will be victorious, — 
By our banner, consecrated with the chrism of 
blood and tears, - 
Never! — Let the traitor perish 
Who would counsel ye to cherish 
The black heresies we battled through the long 
and lurid years. 

It is not for ye to falter. 
It is not for ye to palter, 
In this Crisis — for thy mission is the mightiest 
of time: 



Southland 259 

It is thine to lead a legion 
Out of every realm and region 
In the glorious march sunward'to' the Golden 
Heights sublime. 

Rings the trump! — the drum is beating — 
No retracting! — no retreating! — 
Ye must tread the straight, white pathway that 
thy pure, proud mart3Ts trod, — 
Teaching thus unto the foeman. 
That ye truckle unto no man, 
That th}^ birthland knows no master, save the 
one Great Master — God! 

Up! and from thy statutes sever, 
With a firm, swift hand forever, 
All the laws antagonistic to thine august lav/s 
of old! 
Strike for State-Rights! this thy mission, 
Till it finds a full fruition — 
Let the blessing of the ballot by Caucasians be 
controlled. 

Up! rebuild thy ruined altars 
That were shattered by assaulters, 

And beside them swear thy children the same 
oath their fathers swore. 
Thus the olden, golden glory, 
Flashing through and through our story. 

Like the splendor of a sunburst will illume 
Southland once more. 



NO COMPROMISE 

Shall we turn traitors, and forgive the Yankee 

hoodlum-horde 
Who tramped through sunny Southland with 

the fagot and the sword? 
No, never, by the God on high! until avenged 

shall be 
Five hundred thousand Guards in Gray, who 

fell to make us free/ 
Deep down within the heart of each white 

master of the South, 
Though seldom written with the pen, or told 

by word of mouth. 
There burns a purpose fierce and high, that 

yet will do and dare, 
And when that coming hour chimes, let Yan- 
kee-land beware. 

When foreigners invade her soil, our freedom 
we'll proclaim, 

And smite her down into the depths of suffer- 
ing and shame; 

Her fields shall be made desolate, her vengeful 
sons shall die: 

Her cities, fired by our hands, paint hell upon 
the sk}^ 

We bide our time, and He who waits in the 
translucent spheres 

Will lead us to a sweet revenge in the on-thun- 
dering years; 

The Stars and Bars will flash again within the 
Southern sky. 

And then it shall be tooth for tooth — it shall 
be eye for eye! 

260 



THE SOUTHERN SLAIN 

In their shrouds — the Stars and Bars — 

Sleep to-night the Southern Slain, 
Free from Midgard's mocking wars, 

Fleeting joy and bitter pain. 
Burning suns and languid moons 

In their glory come and go — 
Blooms the beauty of the Junes, 

Sifts the sad December snow; 
But beneath the Southern Cross 

Still the wan, waste years wear by. 
Bringing neither love nor loss^, 

Bridal-kiss nor burial cry — 
Strewing only on each shrine 

Ghost of lily, wraith of palm, 
Where our martyrs — thine and mine — 

Sleep in everlasting calm. 
Mailed hand and crowned head 

Rule their wrecked and ruined land: 
Masters are the slaves — instead 

Slaves the masters of her strand, 
And the Hun-like victors hold 

Orgies in her antique halls — 
Brims the wine in cups of gold: 

Full the festal-music falls — 
Rounds the dance and rings the dice 

In the silver lamp-light sheen, 
While the victims of their vice, 

Houseless, in her streets are seen. 
In her capitols she hears 

Vassal-voices where, sublime, 
Thrilled the tones of Cavaliers 

In the old, historic time. 
261 



362 The Southern Shin 

But, save here and there, her sons 

Royal characters retain, 
As when guardians of her guns 

On the blood-red battle-plain. 
Still, in the sepulchral track 

Which their fainting footsteps trod, 
Some have faithlessly turned back 

On their Goal and on their God; 
Trailed the dear flag in the dust, 

Closer bound each brother's chain, 
Call it "Treason," now, the Trust 

Left them by the Southern Slain. 
But the glory and the gold 

Flung them by their foes shall be 
Ashes, like the fable told 

Of the Apples of the Sea; 
And their traitor-hearts shall turn 

Each into an adder's nest, 
Till our planet pale shall spurn 

Them the rapture of its rest. 
But beyond the Bifrost-pass 

Are the Southern Slain to-night. 
In Valhalla's Courts of Glass, 

By palm-bordered waves of light, 
Free from clash of clanging spears, 

Frost and fire of changing time, 
Where the Valkyr's love endears 

Odin's perfect, perfect clime; 
And their mausoleums tell 

Through their marble lips with pride, 
How our heroes fought and fell; 

How our heroes dreed and died; 
How they marched to martyr-graves 

Through funereal forests old, 
By the sweep of isle-starred waves. 

Over mountain, fen and wold; 
How they spread their silent camps 



We Never IVi// Submit to Kings 263 

In the murky twilight mist, 
Where distilled the dews and damps, 

Where the hidden vipers hissed, 
Where the Spanish-mosses swayed 

In the spectral, moon-lit air, 
Till a shroud their shadows made 

For each fated sleeper there; 
How like pillared cloud by day, 

And like columned fire by night, 
Still her banner showed the way, 

Leading on from height to height, 
Till the crisis came, and then 

Was that flag of freedom furled. 
And the throned and sceptered men, 

Told a conquest to the world! 
But, like Hannibal of old, 

Every Southern youth will swear 
At her altars hate untold 

For the foes who fester there ; 
And that oath will sound our shame 

Over field and over flood, 
Till it flower into flame- 
Till it blossom into blood! 



WE NEVER WILL SUBMIT TO KINGS 

Shall tan-yard tippler from the West 
Assume the crown that Caesar wore, 

And place a new, imperial crest 
Upon the flag our fathers bore? 

Speak! shall he wrest from you and me 
The liberty that is our boast? 

Nay! nay!— By all the Powers that be— 



264 IV^ Never Will Subrnit to Kifigs 

By Father, Son and Holy Ghost, 
By the pure, patriot blood that streamed 

In '76 on plains and heights, 
By the proud, patriot swords that gleamed 

In all our grand, triumphant fights. 
We swear to keep our powder dry, 

Our rifles close at hand, until 
He, in his wickedness, defy 

The mandate of the public will, 
When this shall be our battle-cry: 
"KILL!" 

Aye, kill the tyrant, and thus save 

Full many a life, full many a home, — 
Just as the Brutus, high and brave. 

In the old, matchless days of Rome, 
Killed Caesar in his triumph-hour, 

To wrest the sod from slavery, 
And bade the bright, consummate flower 

Of Freedom bloom from sea to sea! 
Then let the Bloody Boor take heed. 

Nor trifle with forbidden things, 
For we, the People, have decreed 

We never will submit to kings. 
We swear to keep our powder dry. 

Our rifles close at hand, until 
He in his wickedness defy 

The mandate of the public will, 
When this shall be our battle-cry: 
"KILL!" 



OUR CAUSE 

"Hosanna! Hosanna!" we said, 

"For the wealth of fruit and flowers, 
For the beautiful presence of Peace 
That walks this inheritance wide! 
The dream of the Plato dead 
Has come unto us and to ours. 
And here is the sweet surcease 
And the white millennial tide! " 

But a terrible doom leaps forth 
From the firm, invisible mouth, 
And, lo! for the earth is shaken, 
And horror is everywhere; 
The Vandals rush from the North, 
The Chivalry rise in the South, 

And the sounds of their strife awaken 
The blue abysses of air. 

One army showeth in splendor. 
Over many a moving gun, 

A blazing banner where beameth 
This prophec}' unto man: 
The South luill never si/j-render 
The Freedo7n the Fathers won — 
And ever this signal streameth 
All vividly in their van. 

And what was the oath the others 
Sware slowly with bated breath. 
Under the skies blue-bending — 
What was the oath they swore? 
Death to their bold, bright brothers. 
Ruin and shame and death, 
265 



266 Our Cause 

And a whisperless hate unending 
Till all of the years be o'er. 
We know how the oath was kept — 
With saber and chain and brand; 
How it fires the felon-blood 
In the Puritan land away; 
They have not slumbered or slept, 
But steadily, hand-in-hand, 

Through fire and yet through flood 
They have hounded us day by day. 

if. if. :)f. :^^ -^ 

Could the lips of our pale dead part, 
And things all righteous reveal, 
This is the gospel of gold 

Their tongues would utter to-day: 
Let the proud, pure Cavalier heart 
Its vow and its vengeance seal — 
Let a victory yet be told 

For the fallen Guards in Gray;— 

For the old Confederate bands 
Who follow the waving plume, 
And the worn, gray uniform 
Of their Captain everywhere, 
And who fell at length on the sands 
Of the Wilderness when the doom 
Of the last wild battle-storm 

Had smitten them with despair; — 

For the young Confederate braves 
Who went in their manl}' might 
From the moss-draped manors old 
On the green hillsides away 
And who fell by the far-off waves 

Where the blue seas blossoni in white, 
Over glittering sands of gold, 
In the heart of a doomful day. 



An Anonyvioiis Assai/a?if 267 

***** 
Go, then, to their burial-places, 

When the crimson and cream)' blooms 
Are thridding the greenest grasses, 
Are twining the dim, old stones, 
And think of their proud, still faces, 
In the depths of the desolate tombs, 
And say over them thy masses. 
And vent over them th}' moans. 

And swear by the blood of thy brothers 
Who fell on the battle-plain — 

Swear by their graves all glorious. 
By the prayers thy sisters prayed, 
Swear by the tears of thy mothers, 
By our passion and our pain. 
Forever, until victorious, " 

For our Cause to stand arrayed. 



AN ANONYMOUS ASSAILANT 

I'd rather be the sneak that scrawls 
His blackguard jingle on the walls. 
Than skulk behind a stolen name. 
And then, with dastard pen, defame, 
In venomous and vulgar song, 
A man who never did me wrong. 
His the assassin's craven heart 
Who thus directs the secret dart; 
No earthly sin that you could name 
Would flush his brow with honest shame; 
No earthly vice he would not share 
If he could find a pleasure there; 



268 Fecks)iiffia7i Politician 

No crime that hell itself could bring 
Would prove repugnant to this THING. 

Of all created brutes, I know 
None half so beasth' and so low; 
And apt that such a one should write 
Weak rhodomontade to incite 
The populace against my name, 
Because my thoughts I dare proclaim. 
May all my foes forever be 
Such loathsome leper- hounds as he; 
For me one service can they do — 
But ONE — if to their natures true — 
That service is to hate me well, 
With all the burning hate of hell. 



PECKSNIFFIAN POLITICIAN 

1880 

Stands he there upon the forum, and with 

thunder-tongue he cries. 
"Will you vote for this hell leper? will you 

thus forget his lies — 
Lies his festered lips have sworn to by our 

Father in the skies? 

"Will you thus forgive, O, people! one you 

trusted, and whose trust 
He was bribed into betraying? Will you thus 

forgive his lust 
For the lucre that hath led him to uphold a 

thing unjust?" 



Pecksnifflan Politician 269 

And the rabble roars in answer, "No! No! No!" 
in accents high, 

"Down to dust with this hell-spider! He hath 
sworn unto a lie; 

And we want no man to serve us whose sup- 
port a bribe can buy." 

1881 

Shines the sun upon the White House on In- 
auguration morn; 

Up the stairs with step majestic stalks the man 
they called foresworn, 

And whose honesty, they howled, had by money 
been o'erborne. 

And he takes the oath of office. But a mad- 
man sends a ball 

Hissing through his very vitals. Then unto his 
princely pall, 

With a wreath of rose and lily comes his foe- 
man first of all. 

"O, my people!" speaks this foeman through 

his crocodilean tears, 
"Our beloved Chief hath fallen; he who leaves 

no living peers; 
He whose name will ring forever down the 

thunder-march of years! 

"He was spotless: search his record — and its 

white, resplendent leaf 
Is unsullied by an error, O^ my brave and 

blameless Chief! " 
Then upspeaks a clear truth-teller, and in 

language bold and brief. 

Says: "Hold! Hold! I heard vcr, howl just 
one little year ago, 



270 Pccksniffian Politician 

That this dead man was a liar, and that you 

could prove it so; 
Was a thief, and you could prove it; now, sir, 

I would like to know 

"Whether in your secret bosom you believe in 
what you say; 

Were you lying then, or are you lying in your 
heart to -day?'' 

But the hypocrite goes slinking from his ques- 
tioner away. 

O, this world! this world! It holdeth hordes of 

men who mete to you 
Never once the even measure that is honestly 

your due. 
And they trample on and over all who dare 

indeed be true. 

They will hound you down and hiss you with 

a tiger-hate, but lo! 
Scale unto a height of splendor that they may 

not hope to know, 
And thenceforth they are your spaniels — abject, 

groveling and low. 



FINIS 

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